Tethers
by phollie
Summary: For those left behind, there is always time. / Ozbert. Ongoing AU.
1. mint and lilac

This is one of the heaviest things I've ever written. In spite of Ozbert being my OTP of all OTPs, I sure do write a lot of depressing shit to detract from it. /sobs

I own nothing. Lyrics are "The Graveyard Near the House" by The Airborne Toxic Event.

* * *

><p>prompt: 372. mint and lilac<p>

soundtrack: threnody - goldmund

**.tethers**

/

_so bye bye bye, oh bye bye_

_to all this dog-eared innocence_

_i can't pretend that i can tell you_

_what is going to happen next or how to be_

_but you have no idea about me, do you?_

/

Oz passes by on a soft cloud of perfume oil and fine lace, and you've never wanted to reach out and cling to him so badly in all your life. You want to catch him by the cuff of his sleeve and hold onto him, pull him into your arms and rest your chin atop the blond halo of his head just to feel him, just to relearn every line and arc of him until you can almost convince yourself that none of them have changed. It's a lie you tell yourself every day, every night when you help him tie his cravat or adjust his collar when it folds over the wrong way. You still smooth down his hair when it kicks up where it shouldn't. You still reach over to tuck an askew flap of his shirt into his vest, even though his hands have this habit anymore of beating you to it, just as his eyes have a way of smiling when he says, "I can take care of it, thanks."

You hate these social gatherings – if not for the incessant noise of boot heels against marble floors echoing over the droll chatter of half-strangers, then at least for that bottomless sort of feeling that always attacks your stomach when you cross the threshold one step behind Oz and two steps behind Alice. She always leads the way in, every time, with her tiny hand stretched back for Oz's whenever she gets the vague longing for something to hold, as if she _needs_ it. You have half the mind to tell her that you've gone twenty-four goddamn years without a hand to hold, all the while knowing the implications of that and _still_ wanting it; her ignorance on situations like these, as plausible as it may be, annoys you to no end, just as much as it spikes a hot shard of envy to spear straight through your gut. You can't help it – to be so bitterly aware of human matters such as love and longing to the point of _feeding_ off of them just about does you in every day as it is; for such things to land before this girl, this _chain_, when she can barely even comprehend their meaning makes you sick. You've always memorized every letter of anguish this world has to offer you, and yet here she is, all violet eyes and delicate wrists, _taking_ them from you as if they've been her lines to memorize all this time. For all you know, that could be true.

But you see the way Oz looks at her. There's no getting around it. You see the way he squeezes her hand sometimes, how his fair brow lifts in faint concern whenever she happens to look even the slightest bit confused or lost. Don't _you_ always look lost, though? Aren't you always floundering on broken seas like some paper boat, bobbing this way and that beneath the ever-ripping current of _I'm not needed_ or _He's leaving me behind_? Perhaps he's simply gotten used to it. Perhaps he thinks you're okay, truly, in spite of how you just _happen_ to need him more and more with every stretch of his bones as he grows into something lean and statuesque and unfamiliar. (Perhaps he just doesn't…_care_, or…)

Even still, you're forever seeking out something familiar about him, something tangible enough to reach out and touch with a phantom hand when you're too timid to hold it with your own. Is that the hint of an impish grin you see lifting the corner of his mouth? Yes, you think it is. You still crave that teasing lilt to his voice when he calls out your name, just as you used to when you were much smaller and gentler, when you drank honeyed tea instead of coffee shot with rum, when you were _happy_. Every easy smile and flutter of pale eyelashes is a vestige to the master you've always known and loved far too much for your own good. You may or may not still quail inside at every chance you get to touch him, to be near him, to be _needed_ by him.

Those chances, you realize with a slow blink, are dwindling more and more by the moment.

Which is why when Oz taps you on the shoulder to tell you that he wants to show Alice the balcony, you let him. You can't do otherwise, of course. You can't _tell _him. Your words and feelings and the stupid ways in which they correlate have always had a charming habit of fucking everything up anyway, and in all actuality, you're _tired_ – tired of hurting, of waiting, of watching Oz's shoulderblades shift beneath his jacket as he reaches out to take Alice's hand, promising her how beautiful the night sky looks from three stories up. He tells her that it's almost as if you can reach right up and catch a star, and you're half-pressed to say, _That's a lie. There's only one star in this whole damn place and it's _you.

But you don't. You simply stand in the doorway of this grand and glittering ballroom and tug at your cravat as you wave him off, plastering on a smile when he nods you a little goodbye and leads Alice through the maze of silk skirts and aristocrats with no names. In just a few moments, they're gone, swallowed up by all the beauty and elegance of royalty that you've never wanted as your own anyway. To your left, Break is staring at you. He knows everything, just like always, and you don't have the energy to protest anymore. As if you ever could.

More than anything – and it's always been this way, from day _one_ – you just want to be loved. _Loved._

The air that Oz leaves behind smells of mint and lilac. You breathe in.


	2. grave acceptance

415. grave acceptance

**.two**

/

_all my thoughts are all lies_

_all my bones are so tired_

_so young and so handsome_

_so easily led_

_they told me to wait_

_i said_

_it makes a man out of me_

/

At nine thirty comes the wine.

You realize – but not without a heavy sinking in your stomach – that this is when everything goes to hell. This is when you turn into something you're not, or rather something you'd much rather hide, because all that rage and sorrow must come from somewhere, right? You don't fabricate it. You're not a thespian putting on a show. It just _happens_, as if your mind and body have been waiting for a floodgate to open and release every tear and groan and slur; it's a hideous display every time, which is exactly why your eyes widen and your heart stalls for a chilling moment as you briefly consider bolting out of the room to save yourself from that inevitable pull.

It doesn't work. It never does. Before you know it, you're holding a wine glass in your gloved, shaking hand, staring down at it as if it holds all the answers you can't find anywhere else. In the bright light of the parlor, the wine looks far too red, far too much like blood; it should make your stomach twist in disgust, and yet all you can do is anticipate that rush of warmth that always laps at your stomach, heating all that's cold, numbing all that aches.

"You're a fascinating piece of work, aren't you," Break croons beside you, tilting his pale head like some curious crane as he toys with his cravat with nimble fingers. He's smiling at you as if you have something to prove – and perhaps you do, since you always seem to when in the company of this man – but that's none of his damn business, now isn't it? Scoffing, you turn your head and fix your gaze straight and steely before you, latching onto a young man with sandy hair taking the hand of a dark-eyed girl in an emerald dress. The girl smiles, albeit a bit warily, only for the young man to assuage her uncertainties with a genial bow of his head. She accepts his hand, and they start to dance.

You loathe them.

"They say the first step to self-clarity is admitting the problem." Break's voice is a cool, easy slide of slinky syllables that all but lick at your ear, and you barely suppress a shiver. He always does this to you. It makes you feel slightly ill, and so you fix it with a sip of wine, only for Break to counter it with a high, flighty chuckle. "But based on the philosophy of Gilbert Nightray, it's best to simply…enable it, yes?"

Your fingers, white and slender, curl around the wine glass tighter in an attempt to quell your trembling wrist. Through gritted teeth comes a grumbled, "_Break_."

"I do wonder what mood you'll decide to entertain us with tonight," Break continues. "You already seem quite agitated, don't you? I wonder if that will come out to play a little more…or perhaps chill over into something more melancholy? That's always interesting to watch…"

You down another mouthful to tune him out. Around the rim of the glass, you mumble, "Oh, _shut_ up."

Break gives a pleasant sigh before leaning against the marble pillar, one leg crossed primly over the other as his gaze latches onto your profile. Break's stare always has a habit of drilling clean through you as it is, and you wish this vice in your hand would kick in quicker so that the scarlet edge of that eye can be dulled until it's meaningless, inconsequential. You throw back another mouthful in hopes of speeding up the process, eager for oblivion as always.

"What really surprises me," Break says, his voice suddenly hushed, "is that you didn't follow them."

Something in your chest turns cold. "Why would I follow them – "

"Don't you always, though?" Break interjects. "Wherever Oz goes, you follow, even when he's in the company of his chain. Even when it _pains_ you." Through a chuckle, he adds, "Honestly, Gilbert, we don't need to go over this."

When nothing comes to your head in response, you answer with an aversion of your eyes and another long swig until you finish off your glass, knuckles white as you grip it just short of shattering it. Ah, there's that warmth burning at your throat; it seeps into your stomach in a hot, slow wave, weighing down your limbs as if being pulled by strings, but it's not enough. Your eyes flit to the side before fluttering shut, tipping your head back against the wall. "Break, just…don't. Not now."

To your surprise, there's a long silence that bridges between you two after your weak request. Normally, you'd open your eyes and look at him to survey his expression, to seek out some sort of readable thought on his otherwise unreadable face, but you're far too heavy and tired right now to even consider it; and so you resort to distracting yourself with the sounds of swaying ballgowns and the rush of voices and footsteps echoing into the parlor, the maudlin sweep of violins resounding from the orchestra the only comforting distraction out of them all.

Once Break's silence wears itself out, though, you hear him draw a long, steady breath before expelling it with, "Contrary to your belief, escapism isn't a virtue."

You open your eyes now. You have to – you don't like the tone his voice has taken on, as if he's speaking to a second party outside of you, as if he's speaking to…himself? It's such an absurd concept that you can't help but look at him, your vision already a tad foggy as it blurs the edges of Break's face until it almost appears soft – gentle, even – instead of its usual collection of merciless lines and planes that sharpen in a smirk. But you know that's as far-fetched of an idea as you could possibly conjure, and you amend it with a scowl and a shake of your head, wishing to hell that he would stop looking at you like that and _go away_.

For all your loneliness, you don't underestimate the gravity of pure, untapped solitude. For all your _longing, _you've been preparing for this, mapping out the exact moment when you would become used to it and maybe, _maybe_ grow to appreciate it. You suppose you don't really have a choice if there's still one more balcony in the world for Oz to show Alice; even if the night sky were to never change, there would always be one thousand miles of it that Alice hasn't seen, that Oz deems as his duty and his duty alone to point out to her with a small, fragile hand and eyes as bright as the stars themselves.

Tonight, you think, might be it. You'll down another few glasses of wine, catch sight of yourself in the reflection of the china cabinet, and think, _It's okay. I'm used to it now. I'm through with all of this, for good. _And maybe those two will weave their way back through the crowd to find you, their cheeks flushed from the cold but glowing all the same, and you'll know _exactly_ how much of the sky he showed her, every star sewn into his smile. And you won't hurt. You won't hurt anymore, not even when you see their fingers entwined and a certain light to Oz's eyes that you haven't seen from him since you were _kids_, back when he kissed your cheek just to gauge your reaction and laughed when you stumbled to the floor, taking the coffee table with you. That was when you were a year younger than him instead of nine years older, don't you remember? You do. You'll _never_ forget.

A young, pallid-faced servant appears before you with a tray of – oh – glasses, all filled with blood-red wine. He offers to take your drained one from you, and you wordlessly let him before he replaces it with a fresh one. Your hand is still shaking. You need this.

As long as you have this crux, you'll be fine.

But you're going to need something stronger than wine to prepare for it.


	3. and the edges blur

235. and the edges blur

**.three**

/

_darling heart, i loved you from the start_

_but you'll never know what a fool i've been_

_darling heart, i loved you from the start_

_but that's no excuse for the state i'm in_

/

It takes just three glasses for you to lose yourself. You're wobbling on your feet as your muscles turn to water, knees weak and blood ten degrees too warm, but it's still not enough – there isn't that edge of nothingness brushing your psyche in which reduces every thought and worry to unintelligible jumbles of long-gone languages. You still hurt, and you still ache, so clearly something isn't working as it should. But why? Why does oblivion deny you tonight of all nights, when you need it the most? You need a blackout, an erasure, something to cling onto as you let go of everything else for good.

Oz and Alice will be coming back soon, right?

But all thoughts on that matter are promptly flushed out when you realize that the temperature of the parlor is rapidly rising, getting warmer and warmer until beads of sweat form along your brow. You feel glazed over, dizzy, confused, and your feet, suddenly too big for the rest of you, carry your clumsy form over to the massive oak doors leading out to the garden. Thankfully, one of the servants opens it upon seeing you, and you mutter something about gratitude beneath your breath as you make your unsteady way outside. In spite of your flushed disposition, you can at least register that tonight is cold, bitterly so, warranting pale frost to nip at the grass as it crunches beneath your boots. You think you need to sit down, because with every step, your legs feel more and more like limp noodles that can't function or support, only go lank and useless as they threaten to give out beneath you completely.

In the very back of your mind, you hope that Oz didn't have any of this wine. Oh, heavens, _or_ Alice. Who knows what would happen – or moreso, what _wouldn't_ happen, given your worst fears that are only a matter of time before they become a reality. It's not impossible. You've known for a long, long time that nothing anymore is impossible, not after all the things you've seen and done and felt. _Anything _can happen.

That thought makes you feel sick, though, sick enough to wretch, and you clutch at your stomach with one arm before warily taking a seat on the nearest bench, folding in half so that your forehead rests atop your thighs. Your arms hang by your sides, fingertips grazing the cold blades of grass touched with winter, as you let your exhausted eyelids finally flutter shut.

Here comes the blackout. Here comes that rush of relief that you need so badly, when your senses are sent into overdrive before suddenly shutting off and leaving you in darkness. It's perfect every time, flawless in its execution, even if it leaves you nauseous and weepy and an absolute mess in the long run. But for once in your life, you don't care about the long run – you can only focus on right now, on these quiet moments before Oz and Alice return with the whole night sky etched into their eyes and pale fingers interlaced like the ribbons of a corset.

Slowly but surely, you're starting to accept that the "long run" doesn't involve you. Perhaps it never really did. All your moods and desires and sedatives have a place _somewhere – _they have to, don't they? – but somewhere far, far away from here. You can feel that revelation creep up on you with grimy nails and teeth, gripping you in its hold until you're paralyzed within it; it's that damnable, all-crushing feeling of not belonging, of being nothing more than a too-tall hindrance with a heart set on infinity but deserving none of it.

Even if you don't ask for much, for you to ask for _anything _from this world, no matter how small, is…absurd.

"Gil?"

Ridiculous.

"_Gil._"

Hopeless…

"You're not dead, are you?"

Wait. Wait, you know that voice. Through the rushing in your ears, you recognize that voice, every sweet syllable ringing out until you manage to lift your head just enough to ensure it isn't simply your imagination playing out before you. Upon looking up, though, you see that you're entirely correct when bright, curious eyes meet your own – _Oz's _eyes, looking right at _you_.

You aren't sure whether to be enraptured or humiliated, so you settle for a strange mashup of both, staring up at him in awe but feeling your cheeks flush three shades darker as your head spins like a whirring top. It feels as though it may tumble off your neck and roll to the ground, though, so you half-heartedly prop it up on your hand to look at Oz properly, or as properly as your intoxicated state can muster. It's a pathetic attempt, but you'll always try for Oz, no matter how useless you devolve to the moment alcohol sinks into your blood (as if it makes much of a difference, honestly).

All you can bring yourself to say is a lost little, "Hi."

Oz seems relieved for a moment that you do manage to lift your head, only for his expression to shift into a sad smile that may or may not be scolding; you can't really tell, but you hope he won't scold you – you're not sure if you could handle disappointing him tonight without crumbling into dust, and wouldn't _that_ be a sight to see. Kneeling down before you, Oz breathes out a soft sigh before resting his hand on your knee, murmuring, "You drank too much again, didn't you."

You aren't sure how to respond to that without sounding disgusting, and so you say nothing, opting instead for a guilty nod and a shaky frown. You dig your fingertips into your cheek as you struggle to keep your head upright, and you hear Oz sigh again as your gaze drifts off somewhere beyond his shoulder, too embarrassed to look him in the eye anymore.

This was a bad idea. You sort of want to find Break and punch him in the teeth for reminding you of your lack of virtues, of your escapism that has never done you any good, and you give a frustrated huff at the thought, pouting like a displeased child.

"Oh, Gil," Oz breathes out, but not without a soft pat to your head as he rises and takes a seat next to you. It takes no effort on his part to guide your weakened body down to settle your head on his lap, and all you can even pinpoint in this moment is how close you are to him, how nice his hand feels as it brushes your hair out of your eyes, how…how Alice isn't here? That does something strange to your stomach, because would Oz have sat here with you like this if she _had_ been here? With this haunting thought in mind, you have to swallow around the lump in your throat in order to get out a slurred, "Where…Ozzz, where'zat shtupid rabbit, huh…?"

"Sharon stole her away to show her one of the master bedroom's closets," Oz says lightly. "She wanted her to try on a bunch of dresses or something. Alice didn't look too pleased about it, but…well, you know how Sharon can get when someone tries to tell her no."

But even as Oz laughs through his words, you feel a hot shard of something like anger spear through your stomach. Did _Oz_ try to tell Sharon no? Did he _want_ Alice to stay with him? The questions make your head ache, and you bury your face into Oz's idle hand to block them out as if trying to shake them out of your ears. "Oh…"

Oz peers down at you for a moment, a soft hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "You know," he says quietly, "even though I wish you hadn't drank at _all_ tonight…I'm at least glad you aren't crying this time. You just look very sleepy…it's almost nice, actually."

Oh, hell. It only takes about two seconds flat for you to break beneath Oz's words, cracking in a hoarse sob that destroys Oz's momentary relief and all hopes of appearing at least a tad put-together before him; but you can't help it, absolutely can't, not when his voice is so soft and his hand is so warm and you finally, _finally_ have him alone only to be too inebriated to even fully comprehend it. You're a sickening piece of work, crumpled on this garden bench and flopped onto your master's lap, your tears soaking his hand as he just keeps stroking stray curls out of your eyes. You hear him hum sadly for a moment before the pad of his thumb rubs away a salty tear clinging to your cheekbone. "Ah," he murmurs, "looks like I jinxed it, huh…"

You want to apologize. No, you _need_ to apologize, to spit out your sorrows and be a _man_ for once in your life if you think you ever have a chance of holding onto this boy. Just now, looking up at him through glassy eyes that blink away tears, he looks miles taller, miles _away_; just to measure how many, you weakly lift your arm and reach up to him, only for the sheer weight of it become too much to support as it falls back onto your chest. This whole time, Oz is staring at you with round eyes as if trying to understand but not quite getting there.

You wonder, vaguely, if he ever will.

But then, Oz is asking you if you want to go home, if you'd like it if he booked a carriage for you to take you back to Reveille. That coffin of an apartment comes to mind within an instant, and you grab at his coat and shake as if he's leaving you behind forever – on a night like this, though, it's not too bizarre of a concept, given how you wouldn't blame him at all if he wanted to abandon you and move on with his life. Sometimes, you wish you could do that to _yourself_, to simply strip away your soul and leave your body behind to find a new skin, a new face, a new somebody to sink into.

You could never blame Oz for leaving you behind. You just don't _want_ him to.

Through your stutters and slurs, you distantly hear yourself asking him to come with you, please, to not leave you in that hole of a city all by yourself, not tonight, _god_. You're tripping and stumbling over every word, and Oz only gets through half of them until he hushes you with a gentle hand over your mouth and that one perfect, blessed word: "Okay."


	4. to carry you along

Switching to Oz's POV here. I think this was my favorite chapter to write so far. fsgdljsdg Ozbert. 3

Lyrics are "Blue Light" by Bloc Party.

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><p>241. to carry you along<p>

**.four**

/

_i still feel you and the taste of cigarettes_

_what could i ever run to _

_just tell me it's tearing you apart_

_just tell me you cannot sleep_

/

Gilbert looks far away tonight, and so very small. You'd be lying if you denied how much longer and leaner he is than you, and, by default, how much _older_. It's all in terms of inches and years, of course, because it'd be an even bigger lie to say that he doesn't remind you of some timid little bird in moments like these, but still – as laconic and broad as he's shaped up to be, he seems to barely take up any space on the leather seat of the carriage, curled as he is into himself and against the window. His breath paints a portrait of fog against the cold glass, one that dissipates in moments only to puff back out in a pool of misty white.

You're just glad he's sleeping, though. Well, at least _half-_sleeping, what with the way his eyelashes will flutter like dark wings before he just barely opens his eyes, looks over at you, and blearily asks where he's going. When you tell him the carriage is taking him home, he'll then ask if he did anything wrong and if you hate him. The moment you tell him no, of course not, he'll give a heavy bow of his head before nodding off again, leaving you in thoughtful silence for another twenty or so minutes before the cycle starts all over again. It's not as if you particularly mind – as long as Gilbert is some semblance of okay after your reassurances, then so are you.

It's on the third time around when he starts whimpering in his sleep that you decide to move to the other side with him, taking a seat beside his slumped-over form and letting him flop against you when the carriage makes a sharp turn. His body is firm and warm when it collides with yours, a solid wall of sinew that no amount of alcohol could ever slacken; you notice this even in the midst of the man's less than flattering state, and when his head lolls onto your shoulder, you take note of the softness of his hair brushing your cheek as it springs loose out of its ribbon. The feel of it brings about a small lift of a smile to the corner of your mouth, however bittersweet and faint it's colored when nostalgia begins to kick in.

You don't suppose there's any specific cause for such a feeling. Things are changing, yes, but that's never been a bad thing, not to you – if anything, you welcome change, you adapt to it, because what else are you expected to do when you're flung ten years away from the world you once knew? You greet change with a smile and a wave because you have no choice _but_ to, and it's for that exact reason that the sight of Gilbert's long, willowy legs and the pretty arc of his neck as it cranes to the side doesn't frighten or confuse you but simply…interest you. It's with a quiet sort of wonder that you take this man in, relishing the silence of this moment to absorb everything refined and new about him, even if his heart hasn't changed since you left him.

Still. You won't pretend that it doesn't sting a little, the thought of ten years bridging between you two without so much as a blink. It still grips you sometimes with cold, bony fingers when you least expect it – that ever-chilling reminder that the space of a single day to you equates to nearly half of Gilbert's lifetime, a lifetime you _weren't there for_. Sometimes it makes you want to run, run far and fast until smoke blooms from under your feet, because there's still so much you don't _know_, so much that Gilbert hasn't told you. You know it pains him, agonizes him to the point of wishing to drink it all away whenever you're not there; logic tells you that you can't be near him at all times, just as he can't be near _you_ all the time, but…well, if that were the case, you two wouldn't be in this situation, would you? Moreover, in the back of a rickety carriage that smells of rainy musk and dust as it carries you away from the Rainsworth estate and back to Reveille, that corner of a city that Gilbert halfheartedly calls his home.

Another winding path leads to a sharp turn that nearly sends Gilbert's head slamming into the window, but you catch him in time to avoid it, cupping his face with a gloved hand to keep him in place on your shoulder. He mumbles something unintelligible beneath his breath, groggy as he just barely stirs awake, only for you to lightly hush him back to sleep before he can start asking you if you're disappointed with him.

You aren't. You never could be.

Gilbert sleeps through the rest of the ride, only waking up when you gently shake him by the shoulder and tell him you're home. He's still dead weight, all helpless limbs that clash clumsily against your own; the driver may or may not eye the two of you up curiously when he opens the door, but you're much more preoccupied with finding the most comfortable way to ease Gilbert out of the carriage without floundering beneath his weight. Eventually, you settle for letting one of his arms sling over your back as you get him to stand as upright as you both can manage, supporting him to the best of your ability as you carefully guide him up the pathway to his apartment.

"Oi!" comes the sharp call of the driver behind you, clapping his large hand over your shoulder and making you jump. "Pay up, kid!"

"On the seat," you reply quickly, eager to get away from the scene before the man's hoarse voice startles Gilbert and sends him into one of his customary drunken tirades – you could both do without such a thing, after all, especially on a night like this. The driver shuffles back over to the carriage to check the seat for your pay, then nods you off with an abashed wave, mumbling a gruff apology before climbing back in to take his leave. Over the clip-clop of horses' hooves, the only other sounds to be heard are the brisk, winter winds sighing through the trees and Gilbert's shaky breaths as he wearily nuzzles his face into the side of your neck.

In this perfect near-silence, you stop, breathe in, and turn your eyes to Gilbert's flushed, tired face. He's looking right back at you; his eyelashes are long and dark, still wet with tiny dewdrops of tears. When a cloud of confusion passes over his eyes, you lean in and say, "We're home now, Gil. Think you can walk for me?"

Gilbert doesn't look away from you. For a long, quiet moment, all he does is stare at you, his eyes bright and misty as they flit over your face as if unsure of where to look first. What's he thinking about? Will he start crying again? You pray that he doesn't. It aches to watch Gilbert cry, every single time.

But then, with a tremulous reach for your sleeve, he murmurs, "I really…like you."

Something in the air above your head turns over and tightens. Within the same moment, it releases on an invisible stream of smoke, fizzling and unraveling until nothing but a tiny, glowing core is left. It warms you from the inside out, in spite of the chill in your toes and at the tip of your nose as you stand in the cold.

"I really like you, too, Gil," you say softly. At these words, Gilbert slackens in your hold, and it takes every bit of dwindling energy in your body to guide him to the entrance of the brick building before you. You bet this is a strange sight, the two of you stumbling and struggling to support and be supported in turn, but when your hands bump together when you both reach for the doorknob at the same time, Gilbert laughs. However tiny and barely-there the sound may be, you cling to it, and you _breathe._

Up above, snow begins to fall.


	5. a time for tenderness

I really needed this. Bad.

Lyrics are "Whisper" by A Fine Frenzy.

* * *

><p>169. a time for tenderness<p>

**.five**

/

_but if you keep real close_

_yeah, you stay real close_

_i will reach you_

/

The ascent up the three flights of stairs to Gilbert's apartment is enough to drain the both of you of what little energy you have left, and you can barely tell who's more winded as you heave and you huff the entire journey up. Gilbert is by no means light, just as you're by no means strong, and it's a combination that would have undone you had it not been for the miraculous feel of completion upon making it to his door. Gilbert has to reach up and grab for the key hidden atop the door ledge, and it's with much clumsy rooting and searching of his fingers that he eventually manages to slide it off. You catch it with your free hand before it can clatter to the floor – thank goodness, because you're confident that Gilbert would collapse without your measly but earnest support – and slip it into the keyhole to turn until the door unlocks. You make quick work out of opening it and shuffling you both inside of the dark, chilly living room, because Gilbert groans as if he may be sick, and you'd much rather him do that in the bathroom instead of on the doormat.

"Just…just wait a few more moments, Gil," you puff out, hoping to ease his nausea with the soft croon of your words, however breathless and tired they are. "We're…almost there…"

Gilbert only mewls in response as he covers his mouth with one hand. A panicky nod of his head tells you that he's hanging on as best as he can, but you're running out of time, and fast. Nudging the door shut behind you with your foot, you take a steadying breath through your nose and drag Gilbert for the final stretch to the bathroom, where he immediately drops to his knees before the toilet and retches with a harsh gag, only to release on a shudder as he throws up into the bowl. Exhausted, your legs give out from beneath you until you're seated beside him on the tiled floor; at least this way, you can hold his hair out of his face as he vomits again, a sniffling, coughing wreck still dressed in the fineries of formal wear. Resting your cheek against the small of his back, you murmur inane things of comfort and care into the soft fabric of his coat to quell his violent shaking, and even if he still trembles like a leaf all over, you don't stop talking to him until he finally folds his arms atop the toilet bowl and rests his forehead in the crook of his elbow, white-faced and clammy after three bouts of purging his stomach.

You're quite comfortable in admitting that you've seen Gilbert at his lowest – but you've never, _ever_ seen him like this. It's frightening, almost, but you're too absorbed in scuttling to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water to think too long upon it. You haven't even taken the time to kick off your shoes or shrug off your coat, let alone contemplate matters such as self-destruction and the state of one's liver after being washed in alcohol. Heading back to the bathroom, water sloshing over the edge of the glass in your hand, all you can think about is replacing fluids, getting Gilbert fluids, finding fluids so that he doesn't dehydrate and suffer. Your heart is pounding in your ears and you come to the acute realization that you've never dealt with this sort of thing before; in a flash, you feel ten years older and ten feet taller as you bend down to swipe a gentle hand through Gilbert's bangs and tip his head up to help him sip at the water, soothing him with a coo when he whimpers at the raw burn of his throat.

When he manages to take down at least half the glass, you set it down beside the tub and consider taking off his boots; but no, you should probably wait until you get him to the bed, when he's lying down and semi-comfortable instead of crumpled in a heap of silk and velour on the cold bathroom floor. That's another thing you need to tend to – keeping him warm, if not to lessen his wild trembling, then at least to bring about some sense of security to him that has clearly denied him tonight. You want to know what brought it on, what urged such a panic to rise in him in the first place, but now isn't the time for questioning; now is the time for helping him to his feet, letting him drape heavily over you like a dark cloak yet again, and carefully guiding him to the bedroom as he mumbles half-formed apologies about puking in front of you like that. He says he's embarrassed, that he's disgusting; before he can keep going, though, you hush him and tell him that he's neither of those things, but that he's just silly instead, just a little lost, and hasn't that always been okay since the very beginning?

Judging by Gilbert's silence and the quiet sag of his head, you think he heard you.

Getting him to the bed is much easier than your previous trials – thank _goodness_ for that – and you hear him nearly sob with relief when he finally falls onto the mattress, reduced to little more than a messy sprawl of lanky limbs that splay this way and that amidst a sea of white sheets. In the dark, you find the bureau and pull out the first nightshirt you can find, then kneel before the foot of the bed to tug off his boots. You can't help but smile a little when you see that his hatred for socks hasn't let up over the years; his bare feet dangle limply over the edge of the mattress, white and almost feminine with slim, delicate ankles, but you only serve them a fleeting glance before rising halfway to slowly peel away one arm of his coat, then to carefully roll him over to remove the other. The silken tie of his cravat is loosened easily, his Adam's apple bobbing in a swallow beneath your finger when you graze it just so.

Gilbert's eyes only flutter open when you undo the first button of his shirt sitting high upon his throat, and his head lolls to the side to look at you, inky curls spilling over a pale cheek. "What…what're y' doin'…?"

You fiddle through another two buttons as you focus all your attention on working them free instead of taking too much notice in the soft, confused lilt of Gilbert's voice, or the pretty angles of his collarbones as they're exposed with another undone button. "I'm getting you ready for bed, Gil," you say quietly. "You need to sleep."

Gilbert gives a soft groan and turns his head to press his cheek into the pillow. "Don't wanna sleep…"

"I know you might not _want_ to, Gil, but you'll feel much better once you sleep this off, right?" You don't bother bringing up the potential hangover that may very well render him a creaking mess tomorrow, opting instead to finish unbuttoning his shirt and wonder why your hands shake just a little when Gilbert arches his back in a small wriggle, his glassy eyes closing. "Gil, what are you doing?" It's your turn to ask this question now, but for an entirely different reason – Gilbert is acting strange, which makes _you_ feel strange by default, putting aside all connotations in peeling away his clothes in this shadowy bedroom. The reminder makes you flush, and you busy yourself with lifting him up just enough to remove his arms from the sleeves of his shirt and discard the article onto the floor.

That scar is in plain sight now. Your eyes are drawn to it for a brief, still moment before they quickly drift down to Gilbert's belt instead, feeling a bit dizzy.

"Not doin' anything," Gilbert protests weakly, but only counters it with another curious display – the flat slate of his stomach twitches when you loosen his belt, and he warily props himself up on one elbow to peer down at you. His eyes are soft and imploring and, god, his eyelashes are so long that you could almost count each and every one if you looked at them long enough. There's a tight feeling in your chest that speaks of something being a long time coming, of something coming full circle and linking together. It makes you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper on your tongue as you pretend not to falter when you reach for Gilbert's zipper and hurriedly drag it down.

You can still feel Gilbert's drunk-dreamy eyes on you when your fingers curl around the waistband of his pants, but it's relieved when his arm gives out from beneath him and he drops back onto the bed with a breathy mumble of something you can't make out. Tugging down the waistband becomes infinitely easier when his eyes are no longer on you, even if he shivers when his thighs are exposed as you pull off each pant leg and leave him bare, save for the thin guise of his briefs.

How did you two get into this situation to begin with? Shaking your head, you guide him upright to slip the nightshirt over the tousled mop of his hair and watch with detached amusement as he struggles to slip his arms into the proper sleeves. At least you can finally find a moment to relieve yourself of your own boots and coat, immediately feeling ten pounds lighter after dropping the unnecessary layers to the floor. While Gilbert huffs and situates himself accordingly, grumbling made-up obscenities to his chemise, you go about nicking one of his nightshirts from the bureau to change into; it's with a resolute sigh that you decide you're thoroughly tired of expensive silks and fine ribbons, that they pale in comparison to the thin, fragile cotton that slips over your chilled skin and leaves you as weightless as a ghost.

You're just about to lie down on your own accord when you suddenly feel Gilbert's arms weave around your waist, his forehead cradled in the dip between your shoulderblades. It doesn't alarm you, doesn't put you off, but merely…subdues you, softens you, shrinks everything down to the size of a thimble to be better held and understood. Casting a searching glance over your shoulder, you murmur, "I'm not going anywhere, Gil."

Gilbert draws a long, shuddering breath. He doesn't lessen his hold of you, but that's okay. "Say it again…?"

And so you do, your words breathing out into the slippery shadows slinking along the walls and threatening to swallow Gilbert whole. You say it again and again, whispering it into his shoulder until he stops shaking and slowly sinks down onto his side, letting him drag you down with him until you're curled against his chest and in his arms and within his each and every breath. He's warm, and impossibly close, but neither of you go about amending it; if anything, you let him pull you in closer, closer, until your bodies are flush against one another and you can see his pulse thrumming in his throat like a caged bird.

When Gilbert wearily asks you to say it one more time, you say it one hundred times over, whispering into his collarbone until sleep carries you away.


	6. why they call it falling

Shorter chapter, but loaded with sap. :3

Lyrics are "Lie in the Sound" by Trespassers William".

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><p>66. why they call it falling<p>

**.six**

/

_i love you more than i should_

_so much more than is good for me_

_more than is good_

/

In the earliest hours of the morning, when the first stray threads of night begin to unravel and fade to light, you awaken. You're still just drunk enough to register the heaviness in your head and the hollowness of your stomach, and there's a horrible taste in your mouth that makes you cringe upon running your tongue along your teeth; your limbs are stiff and your joints are creaking and there's the unnerving sensation of being on the verge of tears yet feeling no tangible sorrow. In the gradually dwindling web of darkness, you blink your bleary eyes and let the vague, blurry nothingness around you begin to take shape and meaning, waiting for the feeling to pass.

Your eyelashes flutter in another blink before you look down to find the blond crown of Oz's head tucked against your chest. He's fast asleep, his breath warm against your collarbone as it puffs out in even exhales. The lack of light washes him out to perfect shades of milk-white and pale gold, and the tiny blossom of his mouth is within centimeters of touching you. Tucked as he is in the gentle cradle of a dream, you don't dare move, far too stunned at the surreal beauty of this moment to even consider fracturing it.

Oz is in your arms. Oz is warm and silken and he's in your arms, in your clothes, in your _bed_. The wayward strands of his hair tickle your neck, and the faint whiff of his fading perfume oil can still be picked up when you slowly, shakily breathe in – mint and lilac, still so soft and pure and _sweet. _In the very back of your mind, you wonder if he'll pick up your scent from being held this close, or from having draped himself in your flimsy fabrics that never quite forget the memory of shadows and cigarette smoke. The thought makes your stomach jump, flip over, and turn warm, just as the sight of his chest rising and falling in unbroken breaths reminds you in alarming clarity that he's here and alive, yes, but that he's here and alive _with you._

A strand of a shadow falls across Oz's cheek, and it's by pure instinct that you reach out with a tremulous hand and brush it away. His skin is smooth to the touch, like heated glass, and yet you shiver at the feel of it – another stark reminder of his life, his warmth, everything that you went ten years without by turn of cruel fate. But now, here in this indigo womb of a bedroom, you can scarcely believe that you can touch him at last; you can curl your body around him like a crescent moon and listen to him breathe, feeling his dreams expel as sighs onto the air and stitch themselves into the seams of the sheets for safekeeping. But to touch him is to wake him, and for all your wishes and longings to learn each and every detail of the body he's growing into, you can't bring yourself to tear him away from his sleep, not when his face is a vision of untouched softness in the fog of not-quite-morning.

You love him.

In this moment, the thought is terrifying, paralyzing, enough to make your breath catch in your throat before you can swallow it down. You love him. You've _always _loved him, since that first bright flash of his eyes that rendered you breathless, awestruck. From every sun to every moon, you've loved this boy. For every feverish night spent in a place far away from home, this love has driven you, shaped you, guided you through horrors and nightmares crippling enough to break even the hardest of hearts. Everything you have done – _everything_, from the hideous to the insane to the desperate_ – _all ties back to the irrefutable, consuming _need_ for the sleeping body in your arms. And, well, you haven't done much right in your life, except cracking open the lockbox of your heart and _loving him _until you bend, break, and blunder like the hopeless fool you've always been.

But for as long as you've been a fool, you've loved him.

And even though you've always, always known this, it hits you with such breathtaking force that you find yourself trembling like a leaf as if you've just been struck with a sudden chill; oh, but no, there's no chill, because your entire body feels aglow as if lit up with white coals from the inside-out, your heart thumping high in your chest until you can feel your pulse hammering in your throat. Your head spins from both the aftershock of wine and the feel of Oz wriggling in his sleep before groaning softly and lifting his head until it's tucked in the dip of your throat. "Gil…" he mumbles sleepily. "Gil, are you awake…?"

You don't even realize you're crying until you see a teardrop fall onto Oz's cheek, making him blink and look up at you. His eyes meet yours, and it's just like the first time all over again.

"Don't – don't cry, Gil, just…" A weak hand rises to trace the curve of your cheek before Oz sits up, grabs the edge of the blanket bunched at the foot of the bed, and tugs it over the both of you until you're concealed in white wool. You watch his every movement as if in a dream, entranced as he reaches up with the cuff of a too-long sleeve and deftly dries your tears. "Let's go back to sleep, okay? It's not morning yet."

And if Oz says it's so, then it's so. You close your eyes and let your exhausted body sink lower into the bed as you go slack and pliant, the revelation of this entire night draining you of what's left of your resilience. Oz tucks himself close to you again, guiding your arms to wrap around his shoulders, and murmurs something about how warm you are, how soft the blanket shielding you from the darkness is.

In just a few hours, morning will be here, and maybe you'll feel guilty, and maybe you'll feel sick, and maybe everything will go back to the way it was and this night will fade into obscurity; but until then, you will hold onto this for all it's worth until the dawn brings it to light.

You love him – and, well, that's really all there is to it in the end, isn't it?


	7. blameless

Sorry for the longer wait, guys! But here, have a nice, long chapter with lots of talking. n_n

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><p>175. blameless<p>

**.seven**

/

_and you told me you wanted to eat up my sadness_

_well jump on, enjoy_

_you can gorge away_

/

It's morning; you're barely awake. Sharp teeth of sunlight are biting through the blinds and heating your cheeks, yet the tip of your nose feels ice-cold, frigid. In fact, everything feels cold right now, from your stiff legs to your sore arms to your aching chest as you draw your first sleepy sigh of the day, briefly wondering why your senses have been heightened to the painful point of almost being able to _hear_ the sunlight slicing along the walls of your bedroom.

But, oh, that's right: _you're hung over._ You're hung over worse than you can recall in your entire life; everything throbs, and everything is _heavy_, to the point where lifting your head and looking around is a feat tiresome enough to knock you right back to sleep. Your intuition, however, tells you to do no such thing, because judging by the position of the daylight cutting into the room, you can tell that it's not so much morning as it is near-afternoon. When was the last time you managed to sleep this late? Come to think of it, have you _ever_ slept past morning? The thought sits uneasily in your stomach, and you swallow down a wave of nausea that rises in your throat, thick and malaise.

The bed is empty. As you rub the sleep out of your eyes with your sleeve, you're stricken with the distant thought that the bed being empty is…_strange. _It takes you a moment to remember the night before, in which the bed _wasn't _empty, and your stomach sinks low and cold in your gut, chilling you from the inside out.

Has Oz left you?

Panicked in the midst of your bleariness, you roll out of bed until your knees hit the hard floor and make your wobbly ascent to standing; you feel twenty feet taller today, and some unfounded nick of paranoia has you momentarily worried that the top of your head will scrape against the ceiling, but that's all quite absurd and stupid and, Christ, you really _are_ hung over, aren't you? Your neglected stomach growls as you swallow down another thick wave of nausea and make your way into the hall, absentmindedly chewing at your bottom lip as if you're a goddamn teenager all over again. The reverie makes you shiver – you're constantly trying to become younger.

You take a break from walking to lean against the wall and rub your temples; you can feel a headache beginning to swell in your skull. A sleepy groan is pulled from your lips at the dull, thrumming pain, and your hair is lank and unwashed to the touch, clinging to your clammy forehead and cheeks. Your break is short-lived, though, and you go on searching for Oz as you try not to whimper like some stupid, lost child in a forest rather than a grown man in his own apartment.

You're just about to step into the den when you see it – Oz, sitting atop the window ledge with a teacup before his lips, his breath creating clouds on the glass. The curtains are tied back to let in the bleak winter sunlight. Outside, it's still snowing, and Reveille is blanketed in crystal white. You're surprised you even notice anything outside of Oz in this moment, but the white of his nightshirt and the magnolia of his skin paints him a perfect picture of sunny grace and untouchable elegance that makes your heart thump uncomfortably loud in your chest. He doesn't blend in, but rather creates – he's a pale vision set up against a pristine background, absorbing all the light and making it his own.

One hand on the wall to support yourself, you merely stare at him from afar and wonder if he'll be the end of you like everyone says.

You would welcome it.

Oz turns his head to look at you and draws the teacup away from his lips, laughing softly. "Why don't you have a table in here, Gil? A real kitchen table, with chairs for people to sit in."

You're about to tell him that you've never really _needed_ those things before, what with this place having been a bunker for no one but yourself for the longest time, but your head spins when you try to speak and you simply sway on your feet, leaning against the wall to keep yourself from falling over like a buffoon. Oz hops off the ledge and sets his teacup down, then approaches you with one hand outstretched. "At least you have a couch, though," he says with a soft smile.

You stare down at his hand, perplexed. "What…what happened last night…?"

When you don't immediately accept his offer, Oz reaches out and takes hold of your hand to guide you over to the couch and sit you down. You're grateful that he's at least steady enough to support your watery frame that wobbles and threatens to topple over at any moment, and you flop onto the cushion with a defeated huff. Oz wanders off to fetch his teacup and asks, "You don't remember anything?"

"I…a little, but…"

There's a tinny clamoring in the kitchen, and you dizzily turn your head to find Oz opening one of the cupboards and finding another cup and saucer. Pouring tea, he says, "You…had quite the rough night, Gil. Do you remember the party, at least?"

After a moment's rumination, you _do_ remember – from the abandonment to the balcony to the wine to the cold bench to the feel of Oz's fingers running through your hair, you remember. There was a carriage ride home, and there were Oz's arms holding you up as you stumbled and struggled up the stairs to your door, and you'd thrown up in the bathroom until you shook and sweat out your sins; Oz had undressed you, only to redress you, and you'd fallen asleep with him.

You remember. And it hurts.

"Where's Alice?" you ask with a cold flip of your stomach.

"Alice is fine," Oz says. "I made sure that she was able to stay with Sharon for the night. She's well looked after." He walks back around the couch and offers you a cup of tea, the amber liquid steaming and piping hot – another thing for you to stare at blankly, eyes wide and unseeing. "Here," he says. "It's chamomile with mint."

Isn't that what you'd always make for him so many years ago whenever his stomach hurt? It is. You blink, speechless, unsure as to whether to be sad, angry, or relieved, before reaching out and taking the teacup without a word. Oz takes a seat on the floor at your feet. Why won't he sit with you? You want him to sit with you, here at your side, and maybe he can do that lovely thing again with his fingers in your hair, even though you're more than sure that the time for that is long gone and won't be coming again.

"If the snow keeps up like this," Oz says quietly, "the carriages won't be able to take to the roads."

You stare down into your tea, feeling ill all over again.

"Which means Alice will have to stay at the Rainsworth house until it all clears up, at least for the night."

You can't hold it back anymore. There's a sour swell of anger that's rising in your chest, and your words spill out, hushed and cold, before you can stop them: "Is that so terrible for you?"

Oz's eyes are on you now. You can feel the dreaminess having been knocked out of them and replaced with a soft sort of shock; even without looking at him, you can clearly visualize that little lilt of his brow and the tiny part of his lips as he stares up at your downturned face and tries to understand without actually knowing _how_ to. It should frustrate you, should make you frustrated _with_ him, but since when has it been your place to blame him for anything at all? His matters of the heart used to be what you considered your calling, your purpose in life, only to be snuffed out in the face of a dark-haired girl that seems to know just how to make his cheeks glow with an admiration you selfishly pray isn't love, isn't a _scrap_ of how you feel for him.

You don't think you could ever live with that. Hell, you're barely living now, aren't you?

"I never…said that, Gil." Oz is still staring at you. The feel of his gaze seeking you out makes you shiver. "All I meant was…"

Oz's voice trails off. Why? That only makes you shake harder as you lean forward to set your tea on the coffee table, unable to hold it any longer for fear of dropping it and having it shatter into violent shards of porcelain on the floor. Oz seems to contemplate touching your wrist for a moment before his hand drops back onto his lap. "Gil…I can't know what's wrong if you don't _tell_ me, so just…"

All you can do is shake your head. You don't want to talk anymore. You want to tell him without words what pains you; but even the silence aches, and even _you_ have your limits, no matter how much they bend and flex in accordance to Oz's heart and your own desire to keep it as light and spirited as possible. It's your purpose, after all. _He's_ your purpose, no matter how the others laugh at the fact and pass you off as weak for it. You wouldn't trade it in for a lighter heart of your own. You'd never want to.

Oz says your name again, soft and wavering. You stare at his wrist as he lifts a hand to touch your sleeve. "Is this about Alice?"

"It's always about Alice," you say without thinking. Oz's wrist is slender and white; you want to press your lips to it and think about pretty things like his pulse and his warmth, not _this_. "_All_ of this is about Alice."

"That's not true," Oz objects, his voice still hushed. "That's not true at all, Gil. I'm sitting with you right now, aren't I? Just you and I, here in your living room in the cold. That's not about Alice, is it?"

"That's not what I mean…"

"Then what is it that you mean?" Oz peers in closer to you, and you can't help but shrink back, fearful of what might happen if you crack and lean in, too. "Why won't you tell me…?"

You can feel yourself beginning to run out of steam. Feigning the feel of not wanting to touch him, to be near him, to pay your every last shred of attention to him, is more exhausting than you could have ever imagined.

And that is why you let it all out.

"I've been waiting for this, you know," you murmur, a tired laugh stringing your words together. "I mean…everyone else has seen it before me, has _told_ me, but…I guess I was waiting to see it for myself this whole time…"

_Waiting for what? _Oz is asking you with his eyes.

"For the day you wouldn't…need me anymore," you finally admit on a half-laugh, half-sob that is choked off into a gasp. You cover your mouth with your fist, head shaking, toes tapping nervously on the chilly floor. "And you are – a-are completely entitled to that! You're entitled to everything and _more_, because you're you, and I'm me, and…I-I was a _fool_ to assume that we could ever stay the way we were, before all of _this _happened and everything changed and – "

"Gil…"

"It's not my place," you choke out. "It's not my _place_ to hold onto you like this, even if I want to. If you want to run, then…then by god, you should be able to, without me there to hold you back the way I always do…"

_You don't mean that_, says your heart in a vicious, spitting hiss. _You don't mean that, you fuck-up. You could never let him go that easily._

"Hold me back?" Oz asks you, and oh, you can just see his expression shifting into one of concern, of something that almost borders the line of fear but never quite steps over it. "Gil, what are you talking about?"

You bury your head into your hands. Your hair feels matted and unwashed, stringy as it threads between your fingers. Then, on a quiet sigh, you whisper, "You love her, don't you?"

A long silence stretches between the two of you. The air above your heads is tense, and cold enough to sear an icy line straight down through your skull and freeze you to the spot. By the time Oz finally takes a breath to speak, it feels as if one hundred long, wordless years have passed, only to be shattered like glass when he says, "Of course I love Alice."

And he says it as if it's the most simple, obvious thing in the world. Isn't it, though? You barely have time to register the drop in your stomach before you realize that yes, you've known this whole time that this is the way things are, and that it's taken you _this long_ to come to terms with it. You regard this with vacant eyes cast down at the floor, unblinking and wide, as you attempt to sort through what on earth you should do now and where the hell you're supposed to go from here. Somewhere quiet, you suppose. Somewhere by yourself.

"But…" Oz breathes out a tired little laugh. "But aren't I supposed to love all my friends? I mean, I…I know I don't really use that term all that much, but the fact still remains, doesn't it?"

_You don't understand,_ comes that vicious hiss in your ears again. _I love you in ways they haven't found words for yet. _

"I know it's strange of me," Oz murmurs, "and I know it hurts you, too…that's why I try to make everyone as happy as I can, just through little things, you know?" Another small, sad laugh. "Even though it looks like I haven't done a very good job at that, huh…"

"It's not your fault," you whisper, your body weak.

"It's no one's fault." Oz sighs and warily rests his forehead on the side of your knee. The contact is unexpectedly tender, and it makes you jump with surprise as you look down at the top of his head. Oz looks so very tiny like this, sitting with his legs bent to his chest and his arms tucked around himself as he leans against you. "I guess that's what makes this all so confusing – figuring out what to say, what not to say…"

"Say whatever you want." You lean back against the cushion of the couch, your spine aching from the hunched position you've taken on. Joints crack in relief at the movement, but your chest still feels tight, heavy. "Or…or whatever you don't want, I don't know…"

"I could say the same thing to you, though." Oz rests the point of his chin atop your thigh. He's so close, and you're torn between wanting him closer and wanting to sprout wings and fly up the ceiling, clinging to a water stain to keep yourself safe from the ugly things your longing is capable of doing to you. Since you can't do either, you just remain rooted to the couch, waiting for Oz to say or do something that will make it all better. Just like always.

"There's…something you're not telling me, isn't there?" Oz's voice sounds faraway and small. "Something you've been keeping from me for a long time…"

You lift your head, awe-struck at the question, and just _stare_ at him. Did you mishear him? Is this entire ordeal imagined?

"Is it…" Oz looks up at you and meets your eye. "Is it about me?"

"_Is it_ – " Your words are cut off with a soundless huff out a laugh as you gape at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Is it about you? Oz, are you – are you _serious_?" Running your hand down your face, you breathe out another lost laugh as the sheer gravity of Oz's ignorance hits you at full force. "God, you have no idea, do you…?"

"That's why I'm asking you, Gil," Oz says, sounding smaller and smaller with every syllable. "I just – I want to know why you looked at me the way you did last night…_all_ night, Gil, you looked at me as if you – "

"As if I love you, right?" The words spill out before you can stop them – as if you could have the energy nor will to do such a thing at all. "As if I can barely _breathe_ when you're near, is that it? Like – like it's impossible to look at _anything_ else but you, and even if I could, I wouldn't _want_ to? Because it could very well be _all_ of those things, couldn't it?"

Oz's expression is blank, all unblinking eyes and a soft, parted mouth. He doesn't look as if he's breathing.

"It wasn't just last night," you say, near panting what with how fast the words are spinning off your tongue. "It's _every_ night. It's _every waking day_ that I'm with you, every – e-every damn minute of every day that you so much as _exist_, don't you get it? Don't you…?"

Oz's eerie stillness is making your stomach hurt. He hasn't blinked once over the course of your dizzy confession, hasn't even dared to _move_. You almost want to reach out and feel for a wall of glass separating you two, as if he's been perfectly preserved and carved into something porcelain and intangible. The thought makes you shiver as your heart pounds at the base of your throat in hard, hot thumps. It aches.

"It's because I love you," comes your hoarse whisper. "I-It's because I love you and I'm…I'm _in_ love with you, and…"

You see Oz's throat bob in a swallow. It's the only sign of movement he's made over these past endless minutes, and yet he still looks untouchable, unreal. It's enough to drag you to your feet and amble out of the living room, each step taking you farther away from him until you can almost convince yourself that you didn't just feel him reach out for you, fingertips skimming the hem of your shirt as you mumble about bathtubs and cigarettes.


	8. deliverance

O-Okay, so that took a bit longer than expected. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the wait, though!

* * *

><p>115. deliverance<p>

**.eight**

****/

_i'm not strong enough for the both of us_

_what was i supposed to do?_

_you know i love you_

__/

Gilbert leaves you in silence. Sitting on the floor by the couch, you numbly count the seconds in which nothing besides your own shallow breathing can be heard. It's when you count up to two full minutes and eleven seconds that you hear the sound of a door clicking into place, then the slosh of running water filling the tub down the hall. You sit for a few minutes, contained in your own not-so-stoic silence, and once that runs out, you draw a long breath, hold it for a beat, and then slowly rise to your feet. Your knees crack upon standing; have they ever done that before? Perhaps it's a sign that you're getting older, that you're getting tired just like the rest of the adults in the world. Gilbert's knees crack a lot when he stands up, after all, and god knows Gilbert's eyes had been so, so tired as they met yours just moments ago, defeated and done for.

Blinking at the wall, you take a moment to gather your wits before picking up Gilbert's untouched tea and walking into the kitchen. Your footfalls are muted little patters, and even the thick wool of your socks can't keep the cold floorboards from permeating through your toes and chilling them. Why isn't a fire going? There needs to be a fire. Your thoughts turn to bright, smoldering gold warming you from the inside-out as you tilt the teacup into the sink and drain it. Gilbert hadn't even taken a sip. He'd scarcely even touched it…

There are, perhaps, many things that neither of you have touched, despite wanting to, despite thinking on a hushed breath, _Something could come out of this, something beautiful and terrifying and it could happen _right now_ if only I could reach out and touch it. _

You want to touch it. But you are afraid. Even as you watch the tea spill out over the porcelain lip of the cup, swirling down the drain and forgotten, you feel an edge of fear creeping into your nerves and making your hands shake. It's nothing like a fear of death or the dark or spiders on the wall; no, it's something much deeper seated than that, something that you've been swallowing down for so long that you've lost track of just how many days in which it's held you back. You think it's been years, if you're honest with yourself.

Gilbert, on the other hand, had to endure ten of them, ten years of shadow and solitude, of gun smoke and Raven's blood that fused within him a dark, swirling power gained all for _you_. That thought nearly terrifies you in its potency, the thought that Gilbert could have very well moved on from his life with you, grown up in a safe, warm place, started a family, been _happy_ – but instead, he chose not to. He wasn't forced or coerced. He _chose_ to submerge himself in that wild, backwards world of chains and contracts, a world that you were all but flung headlong into before you even had time to realize what became of you. Sometimes you feel as if you're still in that place, wandering about with a smile on your face but floundering inside for an answer, a way out, _something_ to cling onto in these hard times.

It's when you're left clutching an empty teacup over the sink, delicate china suspended in midair between your fingertips, that it hits you: all this time, _Gilbert_ is what you've wanted to cling onto.

Down the hall, a door opens. Then, there are light footsteps, and the sound of another door opening and clicking shut. Gilbert's every move is quiet, as if for fear of disturbing you out of your little bubble of cold, trembling silence.

It does. Thank _god_.

With a clatter, you drop the teacup into the sink and rush out of the kitchen, knocking your hip roughly against the corner of the counter but too driven by adrenaline to even flinch. You're holding your breath and clenching your fists at your sides as you hurry down the hall, heart pounding in your ears and making your head ache. Your eyes are fixed straight ahead on that weathered oak door where Gilbert sealed himself away from you – god, as if he could run, as if he could ever _leave you_ all alone with these thoughts and these worries and these clumsy, frantic longings that are all but clawing at you, ticking away like a timebomb set to go off in five, four, three, two –

And before you know it, you're turning the glass doorknob and swinging the door open, stumbling into Gilbert's room like a mad, frenzied thing that can't find its feet. You freeze almost immediately when you realize exactly what it is you're doing, not to mention how Gilbert stops in the middle of buttoning his shirt, turns, and _looks_ at you, looks at you as if he's trying to wake himself up from a dream but not quite wanting to just yet. His hair is wet and limp about his face, yet still flicking up in odd little curls behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. He's barely even decent, trousers unzipped and belt unbuckled, and it's with a heady flush of raw, genuine embarrassment that you halt all other thoughts and realize with a dull shock that Gilbert is _beautiful._ You've always known – _everyone_ has always known – but right now, standing in the middle of his bedroom with round eyes as he looks back at you as if afraid you'll keel over at any moment, it strikes you even harder, even more intimately in a way that makes you feel a bit ill. Noticing is one thing, but _wanting? _It's an entirely different case, and it's making you shake as you wait for him to say something.

Spanning across his chest is that damned scar, pale and forever there, put there by _you_. But of course, Gilbert has always been here, hasn't he? Because of _you_. Your head reels and you clutch at the hem of your shirt until your knuckles ache. "Gil – "

"What is it?" Gilbert asks, his words thick with worry. "Oz, what's wrong?"

What an idiot. How can he not know just from looking at you? Then again, you didn't know about _him_ either, not for years on top of years that this was how Gilbert felt. Your head spins again and you grip your shirt tighter, gritting your teeth. "Gil, you're – you're just so _stupid_, Gil, I…"

But those words fizzle out on the air just as quickly as they drift from your lips, weak and wobbly. You bow your head with a frustrated huff, but Gilbert's eyes remain fixed on you. Neither of you move.

And then, just as you're assuming you've gone and wrecked this faction of your life just like all those other times, you hear Gilbert say, "I know."

Right as you're lifting your head, he's clearing the distance between you two in long, even strides until he's right in front of you, _right there_, tipping up your chin and threading his fingers in your hair and bending down to kiss you hard on the mouth, hard enough to bruise, and even if it's not quite on the mark, it's more than enough to knock the wind out of you as you collide helplessly against him. Gilbert's mouth is cool and rough as he kisses you blind, backing you up into the wall until you're pressed tightly between that and the firm wall of his chest, and it's by sheer instinct that you find your hands scrabbling for purchase on his half-open shirt, grabbing hold of _anything_ within reach to keep you rooted to the floor as your head threatens to float off your shoulders like a balloon and cling to the ceiling.

It's Gilbert who breaks the kiss first. He's breathing heavily, his head bowed and eyes closed tightly as he seems to devote his entire energy into keeping himself from melting to the floor, what with how he sways on his feet and holds onto you for leverage. His hair drips onto your forehead and cheeks; it cools the burning beneath your skin, and you dazedly wish it would do the same to the rest of you as you quiver and flush too hot against him. It's embarrassing enough being reduced to this state in front of _Gilbert_, of all people, and yet it's strangely fitting that it would be for none other than him in this moment; but the implications of that make you shake even harder, and Gilbert murmurs something heated and soothing that neither of you quite understand before _you're_ the one that leans in again, standing up on your toes to catch his lips with yours. There's a gasp that might have come from you or him, you don't know, and then there's a collective shiver, and then the sweet, syrupy feeling of melting down as everything seems to shrink, expand, and _hold_.

It's remarkable, really – after all this time of fretting over pushing Gilbert away, here you are now, holding onto him and keeping him in place, keeping him close. It pulls from you a breathless, disbelieving laugh muffled into the curve of his shoulder when you lean forward and into him, as if the wall behind you may very well corrode and leave you to flounder into white space. Gilbert is trembling and breathing heavily enough for the both of you, his chest rising and falling in staggered gasps. The warm, strong hand weaved into your hair strokes shakily along the back of your head as if touching finely spun gold, fearful of marring it but needing to touch in spite of it. His fingertips mindlessly flutter at the nape of your neck, and you shiver. You can't help yourself. It's all quite new and terrifying, being touched like this, but at least Gilbert's trembling, too. At least you're not the only one that can't see straight for all the light.

After a long while of wordlessness, you finally say something. "Well, then, ah…"

It's a weak attempt at filling the silence, but it works. "Y-Yes…" Gilbert swallows hard, still panting into your neck and the wispy strands of blond that fall there. "I – sorry, I can't quite – "

"Breathe?" You laugh again, weakly. Gilbert's hair still drips cold onto your skin, and you welcome each tiny shock that has your nerves flickering and awake each time a droplet laps at your pulse. "You're breathing for me right now, Gil. Listen to you."

And Gilbert seems to do just that. He goes silent again, listening to himself gasp as if dying, as if coming to life. His laugh is just as winded and stunned as yours had been, though, and that's sort of nice, actually. It's sort of very, very nice. "A-And you're…leaning on me," he says quietly, astonished. "You're holding onto me…"

Oh, but now you're swaying on your feet just as badly as he is at those words, because they're _true_. You're all but sinking into him, white fists enclosed around whiter fabric, your forehead tucked in the curve where his shoulder slopes into his chest. Yes, you're holding onto him. You're holding onto him for all the times you _didn't._ How many lifetimes would all those instances tally up to? You're afraid to know.

"We…have a lot to talk about, don't we, Gil?" There's that hot curl in your stomach again, anxious and wary, as you feel Gilbert drop his forehead onto your shoulder and gently press his lips to the side of your neck. You suck in a quick breath and wonder if he can feel your heartbeat kicking and thrumming beneath paper-white skin. He nods slowly and murmurs something that sounds like "yes", the only affirmative he can offer while so tremulous and wracked. But you think you understand, finally. You're still dizzy yourself, after all.

Somewhere in the air lingers a promise, something unspoken but all too clear, and neither of you move from this quiet spot as you listen. Breathing steadier now, Gilbert tentatively turns his head to rest his cheek on your shoulder. He touches your hand that clings to his shirt, fingertips grazing your knuckles; you let him. You don't have to break this silence just yet, not when there's so much to learn from it.

Just beyond Gilbert's shoulder and out the window, the winter sun blooms, as pale and soft as a white rose. The snow is still falling, falling, falling.


	9. heart within the eyes

This. Is. So. SAPPY. But I don't care, since everything involving PH seems to make me really depressed lately, and I needed this like whoa. It makes me kind of sad that the only way I can write these two in a happy situation is in a complete alternate universe with no seal and no death and pretty much about 1% of canon material, but I'm winging it, man. /shuts up now, sorry

Lyrics are "Make You Feel My Love" covered by Adele.

* * *

><p>prompt: 413. heart within the eyes<p>

**.nine**

****/

_i know you haven't made your mind up yet_

_but i would never do you wrong_

_i've known it from the moment we met_

_no doubt in my mind where you belong_

__/

Oz is in your bed again, wrapped up in white and nestled into the pillow, and he's listening to you tell him everything you've never had the chance to say. It would take you centuries, surely, to get out every word and thought that's been brewing and curdling over this entire lifetime with him, and so you paraphrase the best you can, even when each point seems to sizzle on the tip of your tongue from finally being relieved upon its release. Your hands are just within touching distance; you're both weary and yet oddly riled, quietly buzzing.

"What was the hardest part?" Oz asks, curled up on his side and facing you. He reaches up to scratch his cheek for a moment, and leaves a faint trace of pink in his wake that fades within seconds. "The worst year…what was it?"

"All of them," you say without hesitation. You reach out and stroke the pad of your thumb over where he had scratched. "No year was ever better than another. At the same time…no year was worse than another, either. They were all just…"

"A blur?" Oz finishes for you, eager to give your dizzy thoughts shape and meaning.

But it's not quite right. "Not a blur," you murmur, turning your head to fix your gaze on Oz's collarbone winking at you from just above the flap of his shirt. "More like…those years are almost too vivid. Too sharp, rather. I feel like I would cut my hands on them if I ever tried to reach out and…touch them."

You have absolutely no idea what you're trying to get at here, but the words roll off your tongue in thoughtless little spirals that curl like strips of ribbon passed between scissors, winding around themselves and unable to straighten out sensibly. You can only hope that Oz understands, hope that you're not scaring him.

"I never stopped feeling guilty," you admit on a whisper. "It was the one and only thing that didn't change over those ten years. The guilt."

"I don't believe that." Oz's voice is as soft as his eyes as he wriggles a bit, making himself comfortable within the cocoon of wool draped over his body. "Was that really the only thing that stayed the same about you, Gil? Nothing else?"

You give a small, tired smile at that question. "Well," you sigh out, "it's more like…anything in my mind that involved _you_ never changed, while anything involving _me_…" With a shake of your head, you roll over onto your side as well, facing Oz but avoiding his eye all the same. "Looks like I'm just as rubbish with words as ever, huh."

"You're silly in a lot of ways, Gil." Oz's mouth lifts in a little curve of a smile; you watch it, quietly transfixed. "But none of them are bad, not like you think."

That tender smile is overwhelming. You expel a long, unsteady breath through your nose and close your eyes in a meager attempt to calm the erratic thumping of your pulse as it rises to the space at the base of your throat, hot and uncomfortable. Oz's eyes are still on you – you can feel them. "I just wish I could block it all out," you mumble on a pained shudder. "All of it, I just want to forget all of it…"

Oz is silent for a moment, and you're just about to assume that you've gone and messed everything up yet again before you feel him shift beside you and move closer. The sheets rustle at the subtle movement, as do your nerves as you open your eyes and look at him. He looks tentative and oddly bashful, but not in your fashion of blushing and fumbling for your words; it's in a quieter sense, and would likely go unnoticed were anyone else to look at him, anyone that hasn't seen this boy at his best and brightest no matter how forced that smile can be or how shadowed you know that heart truly is. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his guarded, thoughtful eyes and soft mouth parted just so, as if he's ruminating on something very crucial and needs a moment to figure out how to go about answering it. The expression is strangely piercing in its openness, and you find yourself holding your breath for fear of snapping Oz out of it and ruining the illusion.

But it's not an illusion, is it? Oz attests to this with a slow lift of his hand, fingers tentative and reaching, before he settles his palm atop your head, touching your damp hair with deft fingertips. You don't dare breathe, too spellbound by the quiet contemplation in his eyes to even consider a sound or a movement of your own. After a moment's stillness, Oz furrows his brow in a light knit of concentration as he relaxes his hand and slips his fingers through your hair, just barely grazing along your scalp. You shiver in spite of yourself; it feels nice, and Oz is so close after years of being so far away. "Your hair's still as soft as ever," he murmurs, "just like it was before I left you."

You're afraid to close your eyes now. You want to keep looking at him, even as your face flushes warm and your eyes lid. "You didn't…leave me."

"I left you all by yourself for the longest time," Oz whispers, his gaze misted and lost. "I made you go through that all on your own…"

Your throat is starting to tighten, something heavy welling up in your chest. Is Oz talking about those ten years? Or is this something that stretched out longer than that, spiraling into the time long after he'd returned? The regretful distance in Oz's gaze as he strokes your hair tells you it might just be the latter case after all, and that both relieves and hurts you at the same time – relief for the fact that Oz is finally _seeing_, but hurt for the fact that it pains him so, and perhaps that pain renders the revelation unworthy; anything for your sake that hurts him isn't what you want, no matter how your heart twists and seems to soar up to the ceiling at how he's touching you, how he's near you and with you and _safe_ in the face of this realization. There are endless other places he could be right now, but he's nowhere else but right here in your bed, in your creaky, cold apartment, in this nook of a city where the people stay alive on coffee and count their blessings on one hand and where the tenants' laundry is hung out on lines between the brick buildings, waving and fluttering like white flags when there's a breeze. The snow takes so much longer to melt here, what with the shadows of the alleys preserving it and keeping it safe from the sun; now that Oz is here, and now that all the horror and confusion has tided over into something much like peace, he'll see that, won't he? He'll be able to stay here with you for as long as he can bring himself to, and if that's for five thousand years or just five minutes, then by god, you'll hold onto every second, just as you always have.

"I can't say it," Oz whispers, and there's a wild little laugh bubbling up from beneath his words that tells you he's trying to brush off this turn of the heart just as quickly as it arrived. But there's no hiding from the faint glow of tears that glaze over his eyes and color them four shades brighter, his cheeks touched with pink and his lower lip quivering as he tries to smile. The hand lightly buried in your hair shakes a little, fingers still awkwardly slipping through messy locks and sending your bangs tumbling sloppily over your forehead. Is he trying to cover your eyes? Let him – you can still see him through the spaces between unruly black, can see how he's struggling to speak but is still so very afraid. _That's all right,_ you think with a tiny, wobbly smile, that heaviness in your chest swapped out for a dizzy sort of lightness that makes your head spin. _You don't have to say anything. It's okay._

Oz's meager Adam's apple bobs in a hard swallow. You watch it, more and more aware of how he's growing, how he's _grown_ over this past year. Does he see it in himself? Now that everything is quiet and has slowed down, will he finally have the time to? You hope so, hope with everything you're made of; it's all you've ever wanted for him – to have time, and to see himself as you see him, and to _live_, not for you, but for himself.

"You…you know what I'm trying to say, right?" There's that quiet cover-up of a laugh again, and the quiet ruffle of sheets as he shifts beside you. "Because…there's a lot of people I want to say it to, but you've always been the hardest and I don't know why that is, but…"

It's not like him to babble. Your lips are trembling in the midst of your smile, and you hope you don't start crying like a moron, but how can you help it? Oz is finally seeing, finally admitting, even as he wages wars with himself to say the things he's always been so scared to utter. You expel a sharp breath that curls away into a shaky laugh of your own, tentative to move closer to him just in case he still wants that safety net of distance between you two; if he does, that's okay, that's _okay_, but god, you want to hold him so badly that your body all but burns for him, burns to reach out and gather him against your chest and revel in the closeness that you've both denied each other for years on top of years.

But you don't have to wish a moment longer, because within the next blink, Oz is mumbling something incoherent beneath his breath and shakily scooting forward until you're both chest to chest, his arms stiff by his sides and eyes cast downwards – a complete contrast to how languid and warm you've become in his presence, eyes misty and lidded as you gaze at him from behind your bangs. He bows his head and settles the blond crown of it right atop your scar, only half-concealed by loose, open fabric, and you can feel his breath puffing out in short, uneven little exhales, a subtle portrait of his uncertainty, his need to understand overriding his longing to run away. Your throat tightens again as your eyes close; that tremulous little smile never falters from your lips.

"I want to say it," Oz mumbles into your chest. He reaches up and places his palm on your shoulder, hovering before it for just a moment before letting himself touch you. You instinctively lean into him, ever shivering. "But…something keeps holding me back and I just…I want to say it, Gil, I really do."

Why are you crying? Is it because you're overwhelmed? Is the relief too much? There are too many things whirring through your mind and through your heart for you to keep track of, and all of them speak of love – from wild and flashing love, to love as silent and soft as gathering snow outside the window, and you feel it all, all at once, complete and unstoppable and finally being given a place to belong.

Whatever the case, perhaps it doesn't need words to validate itself. Perhaps, you think as you wrap your arms around Oz's broadening shoulders and breathe him in, Oz doesn't have to say anything at all, because it's already there, warming you from the inside out as the details begin falling into place after so long of being scattered.

"It's okay," you murmur, everything weak and warm. "You just did."


	10. seek and find

SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT. This chapter was difficult to write for the longest time since I wasn't sure what was actually going to happen in it, but consider this a fluff-filled transition chapter that will pave the way for Chapter 11, which is the chapter I've been really excited to write, since that's when Alice comes in~ But I don't want to give too much away. :)

Also, this is just a bit of headcanon talk: these two have some serious affection issues, especially when it comes to physical things, which is why I tried really hard to make this chapter as…awkward and uncertain and clumsily-hungry as possible. I've always pictured these two to be awkward in their own ways - Oz with his affinity for holding people at a distance, and Gilbert with his fear of losing control of himself and making Oz uncomfortable. Put those two together and you have some of the most unresolved sexual tension I've ever seen before. That's probably what made this chapter so daunting, and yet so fun to write.

Lyrics are "Momentum" by The Hush Sound.

* * *

><p>185. seek and find<p>

**.ten**

/

_all we need is a little bit of momentum_

_break down these walls_

_that we've built around ourselves_

/

Gilbert is holding you.

You can't recall the last time someone held you before this, but right now, with stiff, nervous arms, Gilbert is holding you. His scent is soft and dark, linens and soap touched with the earthiness of coffee and smoke still lingering in the fibers of his shirt; his hair tickles your cheek when he shifts just so, and he seems to be on the precipice of doing _something_, but you can't tell what. There's still that barrier of nerves between you two, that thought of _I want this, I do, but what it if scares you or makes you want to hide from me like you used to? What if I crumble and fall away from you the moment I give in?_

It takes you a moment to realize you're holding your breath, and you let it out on a quick exhale against Gilbert's neck. It makes him shudder, fleeting and fast but noticeable nonetheless – everything in this closeness is noticeable, from the steady thump in the hollow of his throat to the tiny tremors still clinging to his body as he holds you near. Every lean inch of him is pressed against you, and suddenly you feel very small, very whittled down in comparison to his longer lines and firmer walls which ten years have shaped into something striking.

It's no wonder why eyes are always on him. But it _is_ a wonder why Gilbert can't seem to understand that fact himself. He holds you as if in fear of repulsing you. Why?

"Gil," you breathe out, curling your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt.

Gilbert immediately lifts his head, his eyes round and attentive. "Yes?"

"No, no, Gil, keep – keep lying down, it's fine."

Gilbert blinks at you, clearly nervous, but does what he's told as he settles his head back down onto the pillow. His gaze never leaves yours, not even when messy curls fall back over his face and obscure the honey-gold of his eyes.

You scoot backwards just a bit, and you can't help but notice the quick look of disappointment that flutters through Gilbert's eyes; but it's gone within the instant when you reach to pull him atop you, the movement clumsy in the midst of Gilbert's surprise but falling into place soon enough. He's not as heavy as you expected, but much warmer, and suddenly much more tense – although surely you're not one to talk, what with how you're holding your breath once again as he hovers over you, uncertainty mixed with half-contained eagerness coloring his cheeks a quiet pink. He's breathing in small, shallow puffs through his nose, biting the inside of his bottom lip as he looks down at you. Waiting, waiting.

"Stop looking at me like that," you puff out, but your voice is too weak to break the barrier of a whisper, rendering the request worthless. It's not like you to feel this on guard, let alone this self-aware to the point where you can map out the exact distance between Gilbert's hand and yours, or exactly how low he's hovering over you despite his meager attempt at maintaining some sort of comfortable distance. Whether it's for his sake or your own, you don't know, but whatever the case, it's not working.

"I'm sorry," Gilbert whispers, his words coming out breathless and quick. That anxious softness in his gaze doesn't leave him, and you're torn between wishing it would and hoping it stays. It makes you feel strange in a way that you can't shrug off; it's too real, too _here_, and after so long of spinning away from the world for fear of getting too close, allowing yourself this level of attachment is, in a word, petrifying.

But as long as you're still here, and as long as Gilbert is still here, after everything and through it all, then maybe this can be okay. Maybe this doesn't have to be frightening.

Drawing a quiet breath, you place your palms atop Gilbert's chest and watch his throat bob in a swallow. You'll avoid his eye for now, just for now as you feel the firm wall of his chest beneath his shirt and wonder how graceless the ascent into manhood had to have been for him during those years without you. A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of your mouth at the thought. "I wonder…" Your hands drift carefully upwards to Gilbert's shoulders, searching quietly. "I wonder if I'll look like this when I'm older?"

"You'll look better than…this," comes Gilbert's reply, tinged with a nervous breath of a laugh as he tries to remain motionless above you.

"Liar." Your fingers stroke thoughtfully at the juncture where Gilbert's shoulders meet his neck. You can feel him shivering again. "Everyone already thinks so highly of you…what if there's no room for me, huh?"

Gilbert's eyes turn tragic for a brief moment; he's never been one for jokes, has he? "That would never happen…"

"I was kidding, you goof." You softly pinch his earlobe in response before your fingertips stroke over the cool ridge of gold clipped over his cartilage. Gilbert tilts his head to the side with a little shudder, mouth parting. "You should tell me about how you got this thing."

Gilbert leans on one elbow and lets one hand drift up to graze over your knuckles, then over the same curve of gold that you're toying with. "Uh…" He lets out another nervous laugh, breathy and goofy and suddenly looking very young. "I don't know, there isn't really a story behind it…"

"Okay, then why didn't you get a real piercing? Don't tell me you were too afraid of the pain to go through with it." You shoot him a devilish smile that likely isn't nearly as crippling as you'd like it to be; then again, it's a trifle difficult to be anything strong and unaffected while lying beneath Gilbert, your lips still recalling the hot press of his kiss, your bones weak and body warm. But at least you can try.

"It's not like _that,_" Gilbert huffs. He's still smiling, albeit abashedly. "It was more like…uh…" After a beat, he shakes his head and lets out a laugh, cheeks flushing. "Okay, fine, maybe it was like that."

The tension in the pit of your stomach begins to slowly relax and unravel, and you laugh, hands drifting around to Gilbert's shoulder blades. You're beginning to loosen up, little by little, muscle by muscle, to the point where you can feel your body melting down into the bed and your hands touching Gilbert on their own accord without thought or hesitation. Something in the air turns soft, and your laughter fades out to a calm silence mirrored in Gilbert's expression; he's looking down at you with serious eyes, his brow lightly furrowed as if weighing each and every thought that passes through his mind and testing them for potency, for danger, and god, he really hasn't changed at all, has he? Still so serious, and yet still so silly – the sentiment slowly melts away at your smile until you're looking up at him with wide eyes, lost in your own memories and the sudden reality of this moment.

Your movements become slow and deliberate as you stroke your palms down his back, pressing just enough to feel the firm planes of his body tensing up beneath your touch. Gilbert's hand carefully drops back down to the bed on the other side of your head to support himself above you, holding his breath again; when your hands pass down his sides, he exhales sharply and immediately berates himself with a mumbled apology, which you ease with something just as murmurous and mindless as you contemplate slipping your hands beneath his shirt. When you put the thought into action and stroke along the warm skin just above his hips, Gilbert sucks in a quick breath and looks away from you, closing his eyes.

You freeze in mid-touch. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing," Gilbert says with a short shake of his head. "I just…"

Your gaze softens as you peer up at him, studying his expression with keen, watchful interest. "Gil…how long have you wanted this?"

Gilbert opens his eyes, keeping them lidded as he looks off to the right. "Since before the beginning," he admits, hoarse and fast, "and forever after that."

"Impossible," you breathe out, but Gilbert just gives that same shaky, crooked smile, his lips trembling, and perhaps it's not as impossible as you thought. Your body flushes warm again, and you lean up without thinking to catch the corner of his mouth, bumping clumsily against it but relieved when he turns his head to let you kiss him properly; but you can't tell if it's you or him that seals the kiss just right, even though the thought is quickly washed away in favor of taking in the heat of his mouth and that sweet stutter of breath that catches between you two. Your hands are back to gliding up his sides, sweeping around to his chest and down his stomach, feeling how his muscles twitch and how he gasps against your mouth before kissing you again, harder, firmer, less clumsy and more searing. He looms down lower over you, supporting his wavering upper body on his elbows, and cups your face between his palms as you arch up into his chest with a tiny mewl that breaks from the corner of your lips. You're overheated and conflicted and so terribly wanting, so terribly confused by this sudden rush, but Gilbert is so lean and solid against you, this protective wall that wants all of you to touch and keep guard over.

God, why didn't you realize this sooner?

No, but now isn't the time for regretting days gone by – now is the time to grasp at Gilbert's shoulders and tilt your head to the side with a gasp for breath, shivering when he drops his forehead to your neck to before lightly kissing the line of your pulse. You instinctively tighten up – you can't help it, this closeness is so new, so much – and Gilbert relents a bit, only for you to loop your arms around his neck and guide him back down to the side of your throat to kiss at again. You don't have to speak, you just have to show him. You just have to make up for lost time in whatever way you can.

Gilbert's breathing is becoming more and more erratic, but yours is no better; with every sweep of his lips along your neck, your heart beats faster in response, just as your eyes squeeze shut as if bracing for impact but only finding sweetness in its place. Needy as he is, Gilbert is still gentle, still careful with every press of his lips, but you wonder just how tightly he's holding himself back as he weaves his fingers through your hair and rests his forehead on your shoulder. His breath is hot and uneven against your skin. All the while, you lie beneath him, your body burning.

"So…before the beginning, huh?" Your voice doesn't sound like your own when you speak, but you have to say something, no matter how difficult it suddenly is for your tongue to shape the words right. "That's…"

The wobbly laugh that breaks from Gilbert's lips tells you he's just as thrown by the sentiment himself. "I-I…wasn't lying."

"I know." You inhale deeply and take a moment to gather yourself before letting your arms fall away from around his neck in favor of sliding your palms beneath his shirt and up his stomach. You find that telltale scar spanning across the hard wall of his chest, and Gilbert stiffens, holding his breath. "I know," you whisper again, for whatever reason, fingertips stroking slowly over the long-healed slash sewn into his skin.

"Oz, you shouldn't – "

"Does it bother you?"

"I…I worry for you more than for myself." Gilbert's voice is strained and tight, his arms shaking as he supports himself above you. You wish he would look at you, that he wouldn't be afraid, but who are you to speak of being fearless? "I don't want you to feel guilty about it anymore, so please – "

"But don't you feel guilty, too?" You flatten your hands over the scar, wrists weak, head heavy as you turn just enough to murmur into his ear. "All this time, Gil, you've…felt just as guilty as I have, right? For everything and more?"

Gilbert says nothing. His shoulders are quivering.

"This is me…trying not to feel guilty anymore, Gil." The confession rolls off your tongue easily, but your stomach twists once the words reach the air. Your throat feels tight; you're not going to cry, right? Right? "A-And I want to help you, too…for all the times I didn't see what I was doing to you. When I was making you hurt without even realizing it. So just – just _let_ me, okay?"

Gilbert lifts his head a fraction. The fingers curled into your hair go slack, and you're suddenly afraid that he'll leave, that he'll drift off somewhere far away and leave you behind. (But how many times did you do that to him? God, and you never even saw, never even knew. Why did it take you this long to understand?)

But after a moment, Gilbert relaxes into your touch, going soft and pliant and so very, very warm. His lips are pressed to the side of your neck again when he says, "I-If that's what you want, then…okay."

The admittance sends a hot pang of relief to jump in your stomach, and you relish it, clinging onto that proof that yes, you're alive, you're both so very alive after all of this; a little kick of adrenaline at the sudden rush of feeling marks you even more breathless than before as you give a quick nod and set your fingers to undo the few spare buttons of Gilbert's shirt. Your heartbeat is hammering in your ears when you see the scar exposed to your eye, but your hands simply follow suit in fanning out across the marred flesh and learning that raised line with your palms and fingers and, on a mindless whim, your lips.

You don't plan the drop of your head, nor the quick slither further down on the bed until your trembling lips are level with Gilbert's chest, but the moment your mouth makes contact with his skin, Gilbert seizes up with a gasp and bends his back in a little bow, giving you more room to work your way underneath him and drag your lips along his scar. You can feel him shuddering when he rests his forehead on the pillow, curling himself around you while you touch his shoulders and the tense cords of muscle shifting beneath his upper arms. Your head spins when your lips part to let your tongue draw out along the ridge of the scar, and some strange, muffled sort of groan cracks from Gilbert's throat that he quickly conceals by pressing his face into the pillow. He's trembling all over, yet strung so tight with tension as you lay hot, open-mouthed kisses to the same flesh that you maimed so many years ago, tongue swiping over his skin, eyes closing, thoughts becoming cloudier and fuzzier with every inch that you scoot downwards. Gilbert keeps himself suspended on the tightest of leashes while you kiss down his sternum, down the twitching slate of his stomach, wriggling lower and lower until your head is suddenly level with his hips, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed and toes just barely touching the floor.

Gilbert is panting into the pillow and shaking so hard that it's a wonder how he hasn't fallen apart; perhaps it's because of just how nerve-wracked his body is as his thighs are forced apart to give you enough room to lie between them, and you really, _really_ don't know how fast things had to have just moved for you to be cradled so low beneath him that you lost complete track of yourself like this. Your heart thumps at your throat and your tongue feels too big for your mouth and now you're reaching, reaching for his hips and touching around to the small of his back and leaning up to press your lips against the small space of skin just above the waistband of his pants. Hell, you have no idea, _no idea _what is happening or what to do or what exactly is coming over you as your fingertips ghost over the band of fabric, eyes wide and pulse pounding and – and –

"O-Oz, you – "

The urgent, raw sound of Gilbert's voice brings you back to your senses, and you freeze, blinking up at him to find your focus again. You've never been one to get carried away, not with anything, and yet here you are, tucked underneath Gilbert's body and wondering what you would have done had he not spoken. You're not _clueless_ – but you're overwhelmed, and maybe a bit stunned by your own instincts, and maybe about ten thousand other things that you're not sure have actual words to describe them.

Up above, Gilbert seems to be fighting some intense war with himself that he won't let you see; for good reason, likely, judging by how deep his brow is furrowed and how tight his eyes are squeezed shut and how careful his every movement is as he slowly rolls over onto his side. "M-Maybe we…shouldn't – "

"Right," you say, in a daze. You scoot back onto the bed, your every limb heavy and useless.

"Probably wouldn't…b-be a good idea, not yet."

"I…mhm…" You lie flat on your back beside him, feeling his breath puff out against your shoulder. When did you get this dizzy? You can scarcely even get your thoughts straight what with how your head sinks down into the pillow and how your mind wanders to the moments that just transpired, to the endless map of Gilbert's body that had hung above you so prettily.

Neither of you speak for quite some time. You simply lie next to each other and catch your breaths, wordless and thrown. After a few moments of staring up at the ceiling, you look over at Gilbert, who seems absorbed in gazing at you with wide eyes that make him look fifteen all over again. You can't help but laugh, however flimsy the sound is. "Guess I took you off guard, huh?"

Gilbert's stare is locked onto your own, and doesn't relent even when he says, "I-I think you took yourself off guard, too."

"I – _I_ was perfectly fine. _You_ were the one shaking like a willow."

"What? No, you were shaking just as hard as I was."

"You're _still_ shaking." Just to prove your point, you take hold of Gilbert's hand and display it before his eyes, watching as his fingers still tremble pathetically.

"And so are you! Look." Gilbert mirrors your action and takes your free hand within his own, showing you how your fingers are trembling just as hard as his are. His eyes are bright and earnest, but there's a shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He can see right through your silly attempt at teasing him, and for some reason, that seems to strike you both as ridiculously funny at the same time, the silence broken by your stunned laughter. Gilbert's laugh is a touch more breathless than yours, but it's genuine all the same, and even in the midst of your own winded giggles, it strikes you that you haven't heard Gilbert laugh like this in _years_.

Perhaps he's been waiting all this time for a situation as insane and perfect as this to finally let it out.


	11. calling you to wake

a/n: …..it's been a full year. i. i'm so sorry. GOSH. BUT ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, this fic is aaaaalmost complete, only two chapters left! i'm really happy you guys have still stuck around and sent me messages asking about this fic, it means a lot! i hope the length of this chapter makes up even just a little bit for the obscenely long wait…!

lyrics are "elephant in the room" by richard walters.

* * *

><p><strong>.eleven<strong>

::

_how heavy are these words?  
>they're heavier than air<em>

::

Alice is coming back today.

You don't exactly know how you feel about this, but you don't think it's anything good. You can't help it. There's something nervous and bitter brewing in your stomach as you watch Oz loop a dark green ribbon around his neck, tucking it under the collar of his shirt and tying it in a neat little bow. He turns to look at you, his eyes brighter than their custom, and asks, "Does it look even to you?"

You lie to him and say it looks a bit crooked just as an excuse to stand near him and untie the ribbon, then tip his chin up with a light brush of your fingertip. He abides, and you tie the ribbon back into a bow, then smooth out his shirt collar in another excuse to touch his shoulders. (You don't know when you'll be able to be this close to him again, after all, now that he'll be in her constant company yet again - )

"You're making sad eyes at me," Oz notes, reaching up to his shoulders to rest his hands atop yours. "Even though you're not really looking right _at_ me."

Just to prove him wrong, you meet his gaze, only to find that you can't hold it due to a sudden swell of guilt that twists in your stomach. You huff out a breath and look back down at the ribbon, touching it with idle fingers. "I'm fine."

"You're never fine when you're being passive, Gil, I know you."

"Nothing to be passive about, is there?"

"I don't know," Oz says. "You tell me."

Truthfully, you'd rather not, but it's hard enough when you feel as though Oz should _know_ by now, all things considering. These past few days have been perfect. It snowed some more, and the snow that had been dirtied by carriage wheels and the markings of horses' hooves was sheeted in pure white again. Two days ago Oz came out of the bathroom dressed in your clothes, his hair wet from his bath and his skin warm. He let you slip your hands beneath the too-big button-down shirt and touch his bare stomach with your palms, and he shivered as he relaxed against the wall, arching up into your touch. Yesterday you both dozed off in the mid-afternoon after tea, and you'd stayed in bed for hours just talking about silly things, books and cities and strange dreams you both had in the past. Oz had glanced at your lips as you spoke, and it still felt so new being able to touch him, being able to wrap your arms around him and lay him out on his back as you pressed sleepy kisses to his collarbones and the side of his neck. Each night you both slept in the same bed, shifting closer and closer to each other until the space between your body and his was nonexistent. You remember how Oz moved against you in his sleep, breathing quietly and mumbling quieter still. Something hot had risen in you then, but you bit it back, still trepid and awkward but so fiercely wanting that it took the breath out of you and made you dizzy.

And despite that being the furthest you'd gone, just barely breaching the perimeters of touch, it was more than enough, even as your body burned for him in those soft little moments where he'd touch your hand and wordlessly will you to stop before you both would spiral out of control. You would never ask for anything more than what you already have.

So why does the thought of Alice returning make you feel like _this_?

"Gil," Oz says quietly, "I want you to talk to her. Talk to Alice."

A hot swipe of agitation grabs at your nerves and twists them in its fist. "About what?"

"About…this." Oz makes a vague gesture with his hand, and that hurts a little, since he seemingly can't put whatever "this" is – whatever "you" are – into words. "About everything."

You blink at him, trying to contain the angry shock rising within you. "You want me to tell her about this…?"

"Not _this_, you goof," Oz says, touching your sleeve with his fingertips. "Just…about those things you told me on the day you – " He pauses here, suddenly looking a tad embarrassed. "I don't like the word 'confessed', it sounds too cliché for us."

"That's what I did, though," you say beneath your breath, your face warming. "And what 'things'?"  
>"I think you know exactly what I mean." Oz gives a tiny sigh through his nose and takes a tentative step towards you. "You've…misunderstood a lot of things, Gil. And it took me a long time to notice that…"<p>

You're still breathless every time he's close to you like this. No matter how nervous or on edge you are, he still manages to claim your entire body and soul whenever he's within touching distance of you. It calms your nerves a little, but there's still that nagging sense of something you need to say tugging at the back of your every thought. "I'm sorry," you say quietly, bowing your head to hide the embarrassment clear in your eyes. "It's just – she's a lot of things that I'm not and they're things you'd much rather be around and – "

"Like what?" Oz interjects, ducking his head under to look at you closely. "Let's see…she's little, and she eats a lot, and sometimes she uses words in the wrong contexts and it's really funny…and she stomps her feet when she's frustrated, and she likes it a lot when you pat her head."

"Oz…"

"But _you_," Oz goes on, stepping closer to you still, "you're tall, and you never finish your plate at dinner, and you're always the one to correct her whenever she uses a word wrong, and _that's _really funny, too…"

Your breath catches in your throat when he gently takes hold of your shirt, playing with the buttons with the pads of his thumbs. He's looking down, but you can see the thoughtful little curve of his smile playing about his lips as he rests his forehead against your chest. "And when _you're_frustrated, you always smoke and brood out the window and look like a raincloud is hovering right above your head. But when you're happy, you show it in your eyes, and I really…like that."

You give a hard swallow, the blush rising in your cheeks when Oz hesitates but a moment before taking your hands within his own and placing them on his waist. "And I like it when you touch me here," he says softly. "Even if I tense up and you get anxious because you think you're making me uncomfortable. But you aren't, and you don't, because you're Gil."

You instinctively bite your bottom lip, your breath picking up as you carefully lean down to rest your lips atop the blond crown of his hair. Oz shivers against you and places his hands atop your chest. "So don't compare yourself to her, okay?" he murmurs into your shirt. "It's…it's not the same, Gil. She's my friend and you're – well, you're my friend, too, but also…my…"

You're holding your breath as you wait for him to finish that sentence. Your stomach flips when Oz strokes his hands down your chest and winds his arms lightly around your abdomen, his every movement searching, slow, contained. You both stay like this for a few beats, in silence, and it's then that you notice his own breathing is a little labored as he seems to weigh his thoughts very, very carefully. But it's at that moment, as you hold him and he holds you, in which you realize he doesn't even need to add to his words at all, that he's already answered your question, and that the barrier between you both has been kicked down by another brick so that you can finally see him - and yourself - more clearly.

"I hate, hate, hate clichés," Oz finally says on a short breath of a laugh. "And…terms and words and definitions and…"

His voice trails off, and he must sense you looking at him when he lifts his head and meets your eye. And you aren't even sure why you suddenly laugh, a small, breathless, goofy laugh that doesn't sound like it came from you at all, and even Oz looks puzzled for a moment before you say, "I'm…remarkably stupid, aren't I?"

Oz blinks at you, looking as though he's trying not to laugh. "You're just now figuring this out?"

You want to tell him that you're figuring a lot of things out, all at once, all within the space of a few breathless seconds, but all you can do is flounder for the right words and just look at him, holding your breath and waiting for your heartbeat to slow down. But when it doesn't, and when Oz seems to notice it as well, that same sensation rises up within you and makes you lean in closer to him. To your surprise, he meets you halfway, and your ever-lingering nerves still have you making some small questioning sound, a wordless plea for permission, even as Oz gives a quick nod and his own silent admission right before your lips meet.

It's different this time. The bridge of tension that constantly stands between the both of you has come undone enough for you to not quail inside with anxiety when Oz backs up against the wall with a soft hum. For the first time, you're able to touch him without that familiar sense of conflict within you, able to shiver without shame when he holds onto your shoulders and opens his mouth. The very tip of his tongue grazes yours, and it's as if your mind detaches from your body and drifts off somewhere else entirely. You don't plan for your fingers to thread through his hair or the stunned little moan that breaks from the corner of your mouth, and Oz certainly doesn't seem to plan the tug he gives that pulls you closer to him until his back is flat against the wall and your hips bump into his. Suddenly everything is moving very fast, as if some wire holding your control and his resilience together snaps and leaves you both vulnerable to each other's every movement, every breath, every searing union of your lips until Oz's chest is heaving and your blood is fiery in such a short amount of time that it's nearly impossible to stop kissing him, touching him, needing him -

Somehow, though, the two of you break away to catch your breath, foreheads touching. You're cupping his face, and he's clutching at your shirt so tightly that his knuckles are white. There's something giddy rising in your chest which makes your body feel as though it's buzzing and about to take flight. When you open your eyes, Oz is looking at you, breathless surprise making his eyes bright and wide. "Gil, you…that was - "

"I-Instinct, I suppose," you say on a winded laugh, your face hot. "I, uh…assume that was your case as well?"

"Shut up," Oz huffs out, his eyes fluttering to a close again. After a moment, he winds his arms around your waist and buries his face into the fluffed silk of your cravat, his breathing slow and deep but still wavering at the edges. "At least you…get it now."

You press a kiss to the top of his head, body still buzzing as that remaining tension ebbs out of your mind. It hits you that you're likely the dumbest man that has ever lived, and yet you're wonderfully at peace with that fact, so much so that you imagine yourself shouting it from the window for all the city to hear. But there's still something you need to do, and Oz seems to read your mind right away. His voice is muffled into your cravat when he quietly asks, "So you'll talk to her?"

You press another absent kiss to the crown of his head. His hair is so soft, his body tucked perfectly against yours. It only takes you a few silent moments before you say, "I'll try."

Oz leans back to look up at you. His eyes do the thanking for him.

"Your ribbon's crooked again," you tease softly, untying the bow with one light tug of your finger. Oz smiles and tilts his chin up.

::

Alice's carriage arrives at noon. You've kept yourself busy preparing tea you won't drink and food you won't eat, but Oz has his fill, and heaven knows Alice will the moment she walks in. The sound of the carriage wheels crunching at the ice and slush in the streets makes your stomach jump with surprise as you look out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. Oz is in the middle of chewing his tea sandwich when he lifts his head and hops out of his seat to patter over to the window beside you.

Much to your surprise, Sharon is the first to exit the carriage, who then leads Alice by the hand to ensure that the girl doesn't trip on the ice when she clambers out. Oz makes a thoughtful little sound and tilts his head to the side, resting it on your shoulder. "Guess Sharon didn't want Alice to be alone on the ride here," he muses.

The girls make their way into the entrance of the apartment complex below, vanishing from your sight out the window. Oz's eyes are on you, and when you turn your head to look at him, he gives you a small lilt of a smile that eases your nerves just a little. "Don't get yourself all worked up," he says. "You know how your stomach acts up whenever you get anxious."

But even as he says that, your arm is belted around your already cramping stomach. You give a quiet, miserable groan and rest your cheek against the cool glass of the window. Oz shifts closer to you and places a hand atop yours, rubbing a little circle against your knuckles with the pad of his thumb. "You're not actually nervous, are you?"

"Of course I am," you say on a quick puff of breath. "It could go terribly for all I know."

"It won't."

"How do you know?"

Oz looks at you in silence for a moment, then smiles with his eyes and says, "I just know, okay? What's the worst that could happen? You'll say something stupid and she'll kick you in the shin?"

You hide your bitter frown from him when you mumble, "Her kicks hurt."

Oz gives a soft laugh and reaches forward to tuck a curl behind your ear. You hold your breath at the gesture, and he looks at you for a moment as if lost in thought. But just as he's about to speak, there comes a knock at the door, and the moment is broken at the sound of it. Sharon's voice comes from out in the hall, light and bell-like as it rings out your name. Your footfalls are heavy and clumsy as you reluctantly move away from Oz and open the door, and there Sharon stands, smiling up at you as if it's Christmas. "Wonderful to see you looking in such high spirits," she chirps.

You wonder if these past few days with Oz are suddenly written all over your face as you look at her and manage a stiff smile, wringing out your nervous hands and suddenly feeling very exposed. Sharon, after all, knows everything without even seeming to try. You clear your throat and give her your best attempt at a poker face, hoping you don't look as foolish as you feel. "I…suppose you could say that, yes."

From behind the billowing bustle of Sharon's dress peeks a pair of violet eyes, which quickly vanish the moment you meet them. You furrow your brow and crane your neck around Sharon to get a look at Alice, but she ducks and hides from you in a flash. However, you do spot the sweep of a pale pink skirt and the flutter of a white ribbon, and you barely even need to ask Sharon the question that immediately comes to your mind. "Did you…Sharon, did you _dress her up?"_

Sharon's cheeks flush immediately, and she gives a prim little cough into her gloved fist before composing herself again. "She put up a bit of a fight in the beginning, but it all worked out in the end! I had to get three other maids to help me, but no matter! Doesn't she look lovely?"

At this, Sharon steps aside to display Alice, who has resorted to crouching on the floor at Sharon's feet to hide herself. Her head is bowed, and you can hear the faint sound of something like growling. You look at Sharon, your expression deadpanning in an instant. "She doesn't seem to be in agreement."

"W-Well, that's because she's not used to being dressed in such ladylike clothing!" Sharon objects, giving a quick nod of her head as she fiddles with the hood of the pale purple cape draped over her shoulders. She turns to look at Alice, and the smile that graces her lips is so sweet and fond that even Alice seems to calm a little at the sight of it. Even still, the crouching girl looks very much displeased with her new clothes as she tugs at the plum-colored scarf around her neck until it flutters to the floor in a woolen heap. Sharon gives a small cooing sound and reaches down to pick it up, then offers Alice her hand to help her stand. "It was nice having another girl to spend time with," she says softly. "I've been so immersed in Pandora and matters of my household that I…almost forgot what simple fun felt like."

She finishes this statement with a little laugh that almost sounds sad, but the grace in her smile returns just as quickly as the sorrow had weighed it down. "In any case," she says with a pleasant sigh, "I should be returning to the carriage. Today is quite the busy day and I - "

"Is Alice wearing a dress?" Oz's voice seems to come from out of nowhere, and then there's the feeling of his chin resting atop your shoulder as he looks around Sharon to catch a glimpse at Alice. When he sees her, the smile that that lights up his face makes you feel inexplicably out of place; you can't help it, but you're trying so, so very hard to. "She is! Oh, it looks so pretty on her!"

"That's what I tried telling her," Sharon says, gently draping the scarf along the back of Alice's neck. "Then again, Miss Alice would look darling in just about anything."

Alice is looking at Sharon quite strangely, her expression that of someone trying to understand a foreign language. It's Oz that intervenes when he comes forward and takes her by the hand, leading her inside with a laugh. "I bet you're hungry, aren't you? Gil made food, but of course he won't eat any of it. That means more for you, right?"

Alice is glancing over her shoulder at Sharon as Oz guides her to the kitchen. You watch her, bewildered, until they vanish around the bend in the hall, then look back at Sharon with wide eyes. "She's, ah…come to like you, I take it."

Sharon tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, smiling softly down at the floor. "I think she was mostly interested in the snow, to be honest…it's like she became a whole different person when she stood out in it, just looking up at the sky." She gives a little laugh. "I had to force her into a pair of shoes, though, lest she catch a chill."

You can hear the sound of Oz laughing from the kitchen, Alice's voice uncharacteristically quiet but no less agitated. Sharon's voice pulls you out of your distraction, though, when she leans into you, eyes sparkling, and whispers, "Sooooo?"

Your poker face only lasts about a millisecond before you feel your face heating up. "S-So what…?"

"Oh, Gilbert, don't even try to hide it. Something about you has changed and it's certainly not just my imagination, it never is." She glances behind your shoulder at the space where Oz occupied just moments ago, and her smile is a silky, surreptitious thing, knowing everything without you even needing to answer her. "And I dare say that it's even noticeable in Oz as well. That alone is enough to set it in stone!"

Your mind races for an excuse, some sort of explanation to give her that would turn her suspicions away, but it only takes one more glance at Sharon's teasing gaze that you realize it's futile trying to hide _anything_ from this girl - this _woman, _rather. You cover your face with your hands and lean against the doorframe, groaning in defeat, and Sharon seems to burst from giddiness as she gives a little hop and giggles into her hands in a little show of victory. "I knew it!" she says in a delighted stage whisper. "I knew it, I knew it, I _knew_ something would happen!"

"You'd better not tell Break…!"

"But that's implying he doesn't already know on his own. Honestly, Gilbert, we're not dumb." Sharon gives another giggle and clasps her hands together, looking dreamy and romantic as she sways on her feet. "Oh, how wonderful…"

"Sharon…!" You're trying very hard to be exasperated with her, but you can't ignore the giddy elation starting to rise in your chest at the reminder, even as the embarrassment of Sharon and _Break_ already having known; then again, upon reflection, they've always had a way of knowing you better than you know yourself.

Sharon jumps back to herself in a little shock and quickly regains her poise as she says, "Goodness, I really have to be getting back to the carriage. Please, take care of Alice well."

"I always manage," you say dryly. "I'm sure my food pantry is already weeping."

Sharon gives another smile. "She asked about you and Oz so many times I lost count. I think she missed you two."

You're so stunned at these words that all you can do is stare at Sharon as she readjusts her scarf and gives you a final nod before turning on her heel. That secretiveness dashes her smile again when she glances over her shoulder at you and murmurs, "And be good to Oz. You've waited for this a very long time, yes?"

Your breath catches in your throat, but you swallow down your nerves and give her a tiny nod. "I…I have."

She closes her eyes for a moment, still smiling, then turns back around and begins walking away from the door. "It'll all be fine," she says lightly, all things pleasant and sure. "Good day to you, Gilbert."

You watch her turn down the hall to descend the stairwell. For the first time all day, you're able to take a deep breath and, for just a few short moments, feel completely centered, completely certain. Then, you breathe out on a slow, shaky exhale and push the door shut with a quiet click. When you pass by the archway of the kitchen, you almost run into Alice, who's scurrying by with a biscuit in her mouth and looking as though she's on a very important mission. She freezes in midstride and looks up at you with wide eyes. Without taking the biscuit out of her mouth, she says, "Oz said I could borrow some of his pajamas. I don't like this dress."

You aren't sure how to really respond to that, so all you say is, "Okay…?"

Alice blinks at you, looking thoughtful and a touch perplexed. "Why do you look so strange?"

You can't help but scoff at her, rolling your eyes. "I see you didn't learn _any_ manners while with Sharon."

"I don't mean a bad-strange," Alice objects with an indignant shake of her head. "I mean a good-strange. But I can't really explain what it is."

You can feel eyes on you from a distance, and when you glance over, you see Oz peeking around the frame of the kitchen archway, looking expectant and hopeful. When you catch his eye, he vanishes in a flash, but a moment too late. Even still, you know he did it entirely on purpose, because everything Oz does has a reason behind it, and so you stifle a sigh and center yourself again before looking back down at Alice. She's staring up at you with her brow furrowed and her lips slung in an analytical frown as she studies you closely. The sigh you've been holding comes out on a long exhale. "After you get changed and settled and all that, I…"

You glance over at the archway again, where the top of Oz's head can be seen peeking out. Another sigh. "I need to talk to you," you finally finish, avoiding Alice's eye.

"Talk to me?" Alice puts her hands on her hips, suddenly defiant. "Well, don't think you can blame me for anything, I haven't been here in days - "

"It's nothing like _that_," you interject. "You're not in trouble. It's…just a talk."

Alice's eyes are still touched with skepticism, but she gives a tiny nod and scuttles off down the hall, glancing back at you quizzically two times before disappearing into the spare bedroom without a word. You stand alone in the hall for a few beats, and then hear the light patter of Oz's footsteps as he approaches you from behind. "Still nervous?" he asks you, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades. The gentle contact eases the feeling of your head being on the verge of exploding, but only a little.

"I don't know," you reply heavily. "Not…nervous, not particularly, but just…"

"Reluctant?"

You pause. He always reads you so well, namely during the moments when you wish he couldn't, when you'd like nothing more than to be a blank slate so as to not worry or disappoint him.

"It's okay to be a little reluctant," Oz says on a quiet laugh. "I wasn't expecting you to be all for it…

You bow your head, squeezing your eyes shut to stave off an oncoming headache. "I want to do this for you."

"But do you want to do it for yourself, Gil?"

Your chest feels heavy at those words. How are you supposed to answer that? For years and years you've devoted your entire self to this boy, his happiness being your happiness, and now he asks you what _you_ want? The concept is so jarring that you aren't able to respond, trying in vain to get your thoughts together long enough for your head to stop spinning. Oz laughs again, a pretty sigh against the space between your shoulders. "Looks like we'll have to work on that, huh…"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Oz pulls away from your back and steps around so that he faces you. When he looks up at you, he's so radiant and soft that you almost forget what you'd been worrying about in the first place. "I probably need to work on that a little myself, too."

Despite your stress, you laugh a little and tentatively reach out to flick a lock of his hair just beneath his ear. "I've been trying to tell you that for years."

"I'm stubborn," Oz says simply. "Just like you."

::

Alice is sitting atop the windowsill when you enter the guest bedroom – _her_ bedroom now, technically, but it's still a trial for you to admit that. It's with a gust of chilly air that you realize she has the window wide open, and your dread is rapidly replaced with intense annoyance as you clear the distance between the doorway and the window. "It's snowing outside, what the hell are you doing - "

"I like the snow."

You pause in the middle of reaching to close the window. Her voice sounded too quiet there, too human. Her violet eyes are fixed on the silver city beyond the tiny enclosed space of the bedroom and she looks so thoughtful that you almost don't recognize her. In the pale wintry sunlight, se looks softer, everything about her toned down and lighter. She smiles with just the very corners of her mouth and lids her eyes, not paying attention to you in the slightest. "It reminds me of some other place I used to be…I just can't remember where."

Something tightens in your chest as you're suddenly stricken with the feeling that you know precisely what place she's speaking of, a place that you, too, can't remember any more vividly than in occasional head pains and strange, displaced dreams. You shiver a little at the thought and close the window only halfway. The snow seems to help her talk, and you'll use all the help you can get at this point to make this any less awkward than need be. But Alice blinks and seems to suddenly come back to herself, and that typical look is back on her face when she turns to you and says, "Anyway, you better not have been lying when you said I wasn't in trouble. I didn't do anything wrong."

You can't help but scoff at the familiarity of her tone, everything already falling right back into place. "I wasn't lying. Sometimes people just talk."

Alice lets out a bored sigh and props her chin on her fist, looking back out the window with lidded eyes. "Not people who hate each other."

You blink at her, unsure as to why that statement surprises you to much. "You hate me?"

"No," Alice says, "but you hate _me_, right?"

She says these words with such a casual, unfazed tone that it makes your stomach hurt without warning. You stare down at the floor and try to wrap your mind around the words budding up within you before you're finally able to let them out. "I don't…hate you, okay?"

Alice says nothing. She remains where she is, staring out the window with a detached sort of look that you don't understand. But she isn't retaliating or pushing you, and you quietly appreciate that this talk hasn't gone to complete hell yet as you step away from the window and lean against the wall, shivering from the cold breeze sighing into the room. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Well…what Oz wanted us to talk about, really."

Alice lifts her head and looks at you with wide eyes. "Is Oz mad at me?"

You roll your eyes at the question. "Spare me. Oz is never mad at you."

"Oh." Alice relaxes again and goes back to watching the snow fall. "Well, if Oz wanted us to talk, then it must be something important."

"It is."

A long bridge of silence spans between the both of you. You shift nervously from one foot to the other as Alice waits for you to say something. When the wait becomes too grating, she lets out a massive sigh and says, "Well, spit it out already! You look stupid just standing there like that – "

"I love him."

You'd like to think that the words are accidental, that they'd merely come out on their own without you wanting them to, but that's not the case. You mean it. You mean it over and over again and on and on until infinity itself burns out into dust, and you would shout it from the open window were it not for the painful tightening in your throat as Alice tilts her head at you, her dark brow furrowed in mild confusion. "Aren't you supposed to?" she asks. "People who are nice to each other are supposed to love each other, right?"

"That's not what I mean," you say, clenching your hands into fists at your sides as you begin to shake. Your breath comes out short and stilts your words into choppy, broken pieces as you go on. "It's – it's not like the way family loves each other, a-and it's not like how just friends love each other, it's – " You run a run down your face, overwhelmed. "Well, it's all of those things, too, but it's also something else, and it's really important and it's been going on for years and years and it hasn't changed at all for me, it's always been there and it isn't ever going to leave, so I just…"

Your voice trails off as you huff and puff to catch your breath, wiping your clammy palms off on your shirt. All the while, Alice stares at you, her head tilted and her gaze measured and thoughtful. And then, with a decisive sort of certainty that never fails her, she says something that changes everything: "You love each other like parents love each other, don't you?"

Your heart just about stops. You look over at her and wonder if you just heard her correctly, and she looks back at you with such a simple look that you almost wonder why you ever thought this was daunting to begin with. Alice swings her legs back and forth and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "Because if you do," she says, "then that's really good."

Your voice is barely there at all when you ask, "Why's that?"

"Because, well, you and Oz are kind of like my parents, aren't you? You feed me when I'm hungry, you let me live in your house, you make sure nothing bad happens to me…that's what parents do, right?"

You're barely breathing as your hand shakily rises to clutch at your chest.

"And since you just said you don't hate me after all, then that definitely helps back up my point!" Alice hops off the windowsill and stands with her hands on her hips, looking as though she's just accomplished something paramount. "So because of that, I demand at _least_ five more head pats a day!" She looks up at the ceiling for a moment in thought before looking back at you with that customary fierce smile of hers. "But only from you, since Oz's hands are too tiny and it's not the same!"

You think perhaps this is the first time in your life that you've ever truly seen this girl for what she is. It's such a shock to your system that all you can do is gape at her, still clutching your chest as she gives one final nod and hops on out of the room, calling out behind her, "Now that that's out of the way, I'm hungry!"

You're about to say _you're always hungry_ but your voice doesn't come out at all. You watch Alice flit around the doorway and into the hall, the dark train of her hair trailing behind her. After a moment, you see Oz lingering in the doorway, his eyes wide and his bottom lip trembling as he smiles at you. He's a vision of sunlight and you've never loved him more when he says, "Told you."

You slump against the wall with an exhausted laugh. "Yeah," you say, reaching up to wipe at your eyes. "You did."


End file.
